C775* 


THE    TEXICAN 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


HIDDEN  WATER.  With  four  illustrations  in 
color  by  Maynard  Dixon.  Crown  8vo. 
$1.35  net. 


A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  Publishers 
CHICAGO 


THE   TEXICAN 


BY 

DANE  COOLIDGE 

AUTHOR  OF    "HIDDEN  WATER" 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOR  BY 
MAYNARD   DIXON 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1911 


COPYRIGHT 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1911 

Published  September,  1911 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 


PXESS    OF    THE    VAIL    COMPANY 
COSHOCTON,    U.    S.    A. 


TO  MY  OLD  FRIEND 

DANE   COOLIDGE 

WHO  HAS  STAYED  WITH  ME  THROUGH  ALL  MY  TROUBLES 

THIS  BOOK   IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED  BY 

THE  AUTHOR 


M63845 


"Oh,  out  from  old  Missouri 

I  set  me  forth  to  roam 
Indicted  by  a  jury 

For  toling  hawgs  from  home. 

"With  faithful  Buck  and  Crowder 

I  crossed  the  Western  plains 
Then  turned  them  loose  in  the  Cow-Country 
And  waited  for  my  gains. 

"And  now  I  'm  called  a  Cattle  King 

With  herds  on  many  a  stream  — 
And  all  from  the  natural  increase 
Of  that  faithful  old  ox-team." 

The  Song  of  Good-Eye. 


VI 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  VERDE  CROSSING 11 

II  GOOD  EYE,  THE  MAVERICK  KING  .      .  22 

III  THE  DOUBLE  CROSS 32 

IV  THE  SHOW-DOWN   ......  46 

V  LOST  DOG  CANON   ........  60 

VI  "THE  VOICE  OF  REASON"  .      .      .      .  74 

VII  THE  REVOLUTION 90 

VIII  THE  DAY  AFTER 105 

IX  DEATH  AND  TAXES 

X  STAMPEDED 

XI  THE  CATTLE  WAR 156 

XII  MOUNTAIN  LAW 173 

XIII  WELCOME  HOME 183 

XIV  THE  KANGAROO  COURT      ....  196 
XV  THE  REVOLUTION  IN  FACT      .      .      .  216 

XVI  BACK  TO  NATURE 238 

XVII  THE  POWER  OF  THE  PRESS        .      .      .  255 

XVIII  THE  LAW'S  DELAY 278 

XIX  THE  LAST  CHANCE 295 

XX  THE  LAW  AND  THE  EVIDENCE       .      .  318 

XXI  NEVER  AGAIN 355 

vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  calf  was  like  its  mother,  but  she,  on  account 
of  her  brand  and  ear-marks,  held  the  entire 
attention  of  the  Texan  .  .  Frontispiece 

Pecos's  ever-ready  pistol  was  out  and  balanced 

in  his  hand 56 

As  the  rout  went  by  Angy  saw  Pecos,  tied  to  his 

horse,  his  arms  bound  tight  to  his  sides   .    188 

"You  will  turn  this  jail  into  a  hog-waller,  will 

you?"    he    demanded 250 

She  laid  a  brown  hand  against  the  bars  as  if  in 
protest  and  motioned  him  nearer  the  screen 


THE  TEXICAN 

CHAPTER  I 

VERDE   CROSSING      •    _      :  -  .-., 

THE  languid  quiet  of  midday  lay  upon 
the  little  road-house  that  stood  guard  by 
Verde  Crossing.  Old  Grit  and  his  wild  Texas 
cowboys  had  left  the  corral  at  dawn,  riding  out 
mysteriously  with  their  running  irons  in  their 
chaps ;  the  dogs  had  crawled  under  Jose  Gar- 
cia's  house  and  gone  to  sleep ;  to  the  north  the 
Tonto  trail  stretched  away  vacant  and  only 
the  brawling  of  the  Verde  as  it  rushed  over  the 
rocky  ford  suggested  the  savage  struggle  that 
was  going  on  in  the  land.  Within  the  adobe 
fort  that  served  for  both  store  and  saloon  An- 
gevine  Thorne,  Old  Grit's  roustabout,  sat 
tipped  back  in  his  chair  breathing  thoughtfully 
through  a  mouth-organ  while  a  slender  Mexi- 

[11] 


THE    TEXICAN 

can  girl,  lingering  by  the  doorway,  listened  in 
childish  adoration. 

fCOyez,  Babe/'  she  pleaded,  lisping  in  broken 
English,  "sing  'Work  iss  Done'  for  me,  otra  vez, 


once  more." 


"Yore  maw  will  be  singin'  a  different  tune 
if  you  don't  hurry  home  with  that  lard,"  coun- 
selled Babe,  but  Seeing  that  she  was  in  no  mood 
to  depart  he  cleared  his  throat  to  sing.  "You 
don't  know  how  bad  this  makes  me  feel,  Mar- 
celina,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  hand  over  his  bald 
spot  and  smoothing  down  his  lank  hair,  "but 
I  '11  sing  you  the  first  verse  —  it  ain't  so  bad." 
He  stood  up  and  turned  his  eyes  to  heaven;  a 
seraphic  smile  came  into  his  face,  as  if  he  saw 
the  angels,  and  in  a  caressing  tenor  voice  he 
began :  — 

"A  jolly  group  of  cowboys,  discussing  their  plans  one 

day 
When  one  says,  'I  will  tell  you  something,  boys,  before 

I  'm  gone  away. 

I  am  a  cowboy  as  you  see,  although  I  'm  dressed  in  rags. 
I  used  to  be  a  wild  one,  a-taking  on  big  jags. 
I  have  a  home,  boys,  a  good  one,  you  all  know, 
Although  I  have  not  seen  it  since  long  ago. 

[12] 


THE    TEXICAN 

I  am  going  back  to  Dixie,  once  for  to  see  them  all; 
I  am  going  back  to  Dixie  to  see  my  mother  when  work 
is  done  this  Fall. 

"  'After  the  round-ups  are  over,  after  the  shipping  is  all 

done, 
I  am  going  to  see  my  mother  before  my  money  is  all 

gone. 
My  mother's  heart  is  breaking,  breaking  for  me,  and 

that's  all. 
And  with  God's  help  I  will  see  her  when  work  is  done 

this  Fall.'  " 


A  pause  followed  his  last  words  and  the 
singer  limped  in  behind  the  counter.  "Well, 
that 's  all,  now,"  he  said,  waving  her  away,  "go 
on  home,  child  —  can't  you  see  it  makes  me 
feel  powerful  bad?" 

The  girl  smiled  with  the  sweet  melancholy 
of  her  race.  "I  like  to  feel  bad,"  she  said. 
"Sing  about  the  wind." 

Angevine  Thorne  looked  down  upon  her  and 
shook  his  head  sadly.  "Ah,  Marcelina,"  he 
said,  "you  are  growing  up  to  be  a  woman." 
Then  he  sighed  and  began  again:  — 

"That  very  same  night  this  poor  cowboy  went  out  to 
stand  his  guard. 

[IS] 


THE    TEXICAN 

The  wind  was  blowing  fiercely  and  the  rain  was  falling 
hard. 

The  cattle  they  got  frightened  and  ran  in  a  mad  stam- 
pede. 

Poor  boy,  he  tried  to  head  them  while  riding  at  full 
speed. 

Riding  in  the  darkness  so  loudly  he  did  shout, 

A-trying  to  head  the  cattle,  a-trying  to  turn  them  about, 

When  his  saddled  night-horse  stumbled  and  upon  him 
did  fall. 

Now  the  poor  boy  will  not  see  his  mother  when  work  is 
done  this  Fall/' 

"And  now  the  rest  —  how  he  died,"  breathed 
Marcelina,  and  once  more  the  troubadour 
smiled. 

"We  picked  him  up  so  gently  and  laid  him  on  his  bed, 
A-standing  all  around  the  poor  cowboy,  a-thinking  he  was 

dead, 
When  he  opened  wide  his  blue  eyes,  looked  around  and 

said: 

'Boys,  I  think  those  are  the  last  steers  I  shall  ever  head. 
So  Bill,  you  take  my  saddle,  and  Charley,  you  take  my 

bed, 
And  George,  you  take  my  six-shooter  and  be  sure  that 

I  am  dead. 

I  am  going  to  a  new  range,  for  I  hear  my  Master's  call, 
And  will  not  see  my  aged  mother  when  work  is  done  this 

Fall. 

"  'After  the  round-ups  were  over,  after  the  shipping  was 
all  done, 

[14] 


THE    TEXICAN 

I  was  going  to  see  my  mother  before  my  money  was  all 

gone. 
My  mother's  heart  is   breaking,   breaking   for  me   and 

that's  all, 
And  if  God  had  spared  my  absence  I  would  have  seen 

her 
When  work  was  done  this  Fall.'  " 

A  rapt  silence,  such  as  artists  love,  followed 
the  last  wailing  cadence  of  the  song;  the  still- 
ness of  the  desert  crept  in  upon  them,  broken 
only  by  the  murmur  of  the  river  and  an  al- 
most subterranean  thud  of  hoofs ;  then  with  a 
jingle  of  spurs  and  the  creaking  of  wet  leather  a 
horseman  rode  up  and  halted  before  the  door. 
The  water  sloshed  in  his  boots  as  he  dismounted 
but  he  swung  into  the  store  with  the  grace  of  a 
cavalier  —  a  young  man,  almost  a  boy,  yet 
broad-shouldered  and  muscular,  with  features 
moulded  to  an  expression  of  singular  resolu- 
tion and  courage.  A  heavy  pair  of  apron 
chaps  —  sure  sign  of  Texas  —  cumbered  his 
limbs  and  the  wooden  handle  of  a  Colts  forty- 
five  showed  above  its  holster  in  the  right  leg; 
for  the  rest,  he  wore  a  new  jumper  over  his 
blue  shirt,  and  a  broad,  high-crowned  hat,.with- 

[15] 


THE     TEXICAN 

out  frills.  As  the  stranger  headed  for  the  bar 
with  business-like  directness  Angevine  Thorne 
felt  a  sudden  sense  of  awe,  almost  of  fear,  and 
he  wondered  for  the  instant  if  it  was  a  hold-up ; 
but  the  Texan  simply  dropped  a  quarter  on 
the  counter  and  motioned  to  a  bottle. 

"Two,"  he  corrected,  as  Babe  filled  a  single 
glass ;  and,  shoving  the  second  one  towards  his 
host,  who  eyed  it  with  studied  unconcern,  the 
cowboy  tossed  off  his  own  and  looked  around. 

"What 's  the  matter?"  he  inquired,  as  Babe 
moved  thoughtfully  away;  "swore  off?  All 
right,  you  drink  the  chaser,  then,"  and  leav- 
ing the  superfluous  glass  of  water  on  the  bar 
he  drank  the  whiskey  himself. 

"Ughr!  That's  the  real  old  tarantula- 
juice,"  he  observed,  as  the  fiery  liquor  made 
him  shudder.  "Since  when  did  you  swear 
off?" 

"Six  weeks,"  responded  Babe,  shortly. 
"How's  Texas?" 

"All  right,"  replied  the  cowboy.  "Did  it 
git  away  with  you?" 

[16] 


THE    TEXICAN 

"Yep,"  returned  the  bar-keeper.  "Don't 
like  to  talk  about  it  —  say,  is  they  anybody  left 
in  Texas?" 

The  stranger  gazed  at  him  shrewdly  for  a 
moment,  and  a  grim  light  came  into  his  eye. 

"Don't  like  to  talk  about  it,"  he  said,  "but 
now  you  speak  of  it  I  know  of  one  feller,  for 
sure  —  and  dam'  badly  left,  too.  May  be 
around  on  crutches  by  now."  He  glanced  out 
at  his  horse,  which  had  just  shaken  itself  under 
the  saddle,  and  let  his  gaze  wander  to  Marce- 
lina. 

"Pretty  girls  you  have  in  this  country,"  he 
remarked,  turning  a  little  sidewise  to  Babe,  but 
watching  her  from  beneath  his  hat.  "Don't 
speak  any  English,  I  suppose?" 

"Nope,"  replied  Babe,  sullenly,  "her  mother 
don't  like  cowboys.  Oyez,  Marcelina,  vaya  se 
a  su  madre,  chiquita!"  But  though  her  mother 
was  calling,  the  wilful  Marcelina  did  not  move. 
Like  an  Aztec  princess  she  stood  silent  and  im- 
passive, gazing  out  from  beneath  her  dark 
lashes  and  waiting  to  catch  some  further  word 
2  [17] 


THE    TEXICAN 

of  praise  from  this  dashing  stranger.  Un- 
doubtedly, Marcelina  was  growing  to  be  a 
woman. 

"Name's  Marcelina,  eh?"  soliloquized  the 
cowboy,  innocently.  "Pity  she  can't  savvy 
English  —  she  's  right  pretty,  for  a  Mex." 

At  that  last  unconscious  word  of  derogation 
the  regal  beauty  of  Marcelina  changed  to  a  re- 
gal scorn  and  flashing  her  black  eyes  she  strode 
towards  the  door  like  a  tragic  queen. 

"Gr-ringo!"  she  hissed,  turning  upon  him  in 
the  doorway,  and  seizing  upon  her  pail  of  lard 
she  scampered  up  the  trail. 

"Hell's  fire !"  exclaimed  the  Tehanno.  "Did 
she  understand  what  I  said?" 

"That 's  what,"  replied  Babe,  ungraciously, 
"you  done  queered  yourself  with  her  for  life. 
She  won't  stand  for  nothin'  aginst  her  peo- 
pie." 

"Huh!"  grumbled  the  newcomer,  "that 's 
what  comes  from  drinkin'  yore  pisen  whiskey. 
I  begin  to  savvy  now,  Pardner,  why  you  passed 
up  that  sheep-herder  dope  and  took  water." 

[18] 


THE    TEXICAN 

He  grinned  sardonically,  making  a  motion 
as  of  a  pin-wheel  twirling  in  his  head,  but  the 
bar-keeper  did  not  fall  in  with  his  jest. 
"Nothin5  of  the  kind,"  he  retorted.  "W'y, 
boy,  I  could  drink  that  whole  bottle  and  walk 
a  tight  rope.  I  guess  you  don't  know  me  — 
I  'm  Angevine  Thorne,  sometimes  known  as 
'Babe' !"  He  threw  out  his  chest,  but  the  cow- 
boy still  looked  puzzled. 

"Did  you  come  through  Geronimo,"  in- 
quired Babe,  returning  to  the  attack,  "and 
never  heard  of  me?  Well  then,  Pardner,  I  '11 
have  to  put  you  wise  —  I  'm  Angevine  Thorne, 
the  Champion  Booze-fighter  of  Arizona!" 
He  dropped  back  to  his  pose  and  the  cowboy 
contemplated  him  with  grave  curiosity. 

"Mr.  Thorne,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand, 
"my  name  is  Dalhart  —  Pecos  Dalhart,  from 
Texas  —  and  I  'm  proud  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance. Won't  you  have  a  drink  on  the 
strength  of  it?" 

"Thank  you  just  as  much,"  replied  Mr. 
Thorne,  affably,  "but  I  Ve  sworn  off.  I  Ve 

[19] 


THE     TEXICAN 

been  the  greatest  booze-fighter  of  Arizona  for 
twenty  years,  but  I  Ve  sworn  off.  Never, 
never,  will  I  let  another  drop  of  liquor  pass  my 
lips!  I  have  been  sentenced  to  the  Geronimo 
jail  for  life  for  conspicuous  drunkenness;  I 
have  passed  my  days  in  riotous  living  and  my 
nights  in  the  county  jail,  but  the  love  of  a  good 
mother  has  followed  me  through  it  all  and  now 
I  am  going  to  quit!  I  'm  saving  up  money  to 
go  home." 

"Good  for  you,"  commented  Pecos  Dalhart, 
with  the  good-natured  credulity  which  men  con- 
fer upon  drunkards,  "stay  with  it!  But  say, 
not  to  change  the  subject  at  all,  where  can  I 
git  something  to  eat  around  here?  I  'm  ganted 
down  to  a  shadder." 

"You  're  talkin'  to  the  right  man,  son,"  re- 
turned Babe,  hustling  out  from  behind  the  bar. 
"I  'm  one  of  the  best  round-up  cooks  that  ever 
mixed  the  sour-dough  —  in  fact,  I  'm  supposed 
to  be  cookin'  for  Grit's  outfit  right  now  and  he 
just  saws  this  bar-keep  job  off  on  me  between 
times,  so  's  to  tempt  me  and  git  my  money  - 

[20] 


THE    TEXICAN 

when  I  git  drunk,  you  savvy.  He  's  a  great 
feller,  Old  Crit  —  one  of  the  boys  up  the  river 
has  got  a  penny  Crit  passed  off  on  him  in  the 
dark  for  a  dime  and  he  swears  to  God  that  pore 
Injun's  head  is  mashed  flat,  jest  from  bein' 
pinched  so  hard.  Pinch?  W'y,  he  's  like  a  pet 
eagle  I  had  one  time  —  every  time  he  lit  on  my 
arm  he  'd  throw  the  hooks  into  me  —  could  n't 
help  it  —  feet  built  that  way.  An'  holler! 
He  'd  yell  Cree  so  you  c'd  hear  him  a  mile  if 
anybody  tried  to  steal  his  meat.  Same  way 
with  Crit.  Old  Man  Upton  over  here  on  the 
Tonto  happened  to  brand  one  of  his  calves  once 
and  he  's  been  hollerin'  about  that  maverick 
ever  since.  You  've  heard  of  this  war  goin'  on 
up  here,  hain't  you?  Well  that's  just  Old 
Crit  tryin'  to  git  his  revenge.  If  he  's  burnt 
one  U  calf  he  's  burnt  a  thousand  and  they 
ain't  cowboys  enough  in  Texas  to  hold  up  his 
end,  if  it  ever  comes  to  fightin'.  This  here  is 
the  cow-camp  —  throw  yore  horse  in  the  corral 
over  there  and  I  '11  cook  up  a  little  chuck  — 
jest  about  to  eat,  myse'f." 

[21] 


CHAPTER  II 

GOOD   EYE,   THE   MAVERICK   KING 

ANGEVINE  THORNE  was  still  talk- 
ing mean  about  his  boss  when  the  cow- 
boys came  stringing  back  from  their  day's 
riding,  hungry  as  wolves.  At  the  first  dust 
sign  in  the  northern  pass  the  round-up  cook  had 
piled  wood  on  the  fire  to  make  coals  and  as  the 
iron-faced  punchers  rode  up  he  hammered  on  a 
tin  plate  and  yelled :  — 

"Grub  pile!     Come  a-runnin'!" 

They  came,  with  the  dirt  of  the  branding 
still  on  their  faces  and  beards  and  their  hands 
smeared  with  blood.  Each  in  turn  glanced 
furtively  at  Pecos  Dalhart,  who  sat  off  at  one 
side  contemplating  the  landscape,  grabbed  a 
plate  and  coffee  cup  and  fell  to  without  a  word. 
Last  of  all  came  Isaac  Crittenden,  the  Boss, 
tall,  gaunt,  and  stooping,  his  head  canted  back 

[22] 


THE     TEXICAN 

to  make  up  for  the  crook  in  his  back  and  his  one 
good  eye  roving  about  restlessly.  As  he  rode 
in,  Pecos  glanced  up  and  nodded  and  then  con- 
tinued his  industry  of  drawing  brands  in  the 
dust.  The  Boss,  on  his  part,  was  no  more  cor- 
dial; but  after  the  meal  was  finished  he  took 
another  look  at  the  newcomer,  spoke  a  few 
words  with  the  cook,  and  strolled  over  for  a 
talk. 

"Howdy,  stranger,"  he  began,  with  a  quick 
glance  at  the  brands  in  the  sand;  "travellin' 
far?" 

"Nope,"  responded  Pecos,  "jest  up  the  trail 
a  piece." 

A  shadow  crossed  the  Boss's  face  --  Upton's 
was  uup  the  trail  a  piece"-  -  but  he  did  not  fol- 
low that  lead. 

"Know  any  of  them  irons?"  he  inquired, 
pointing  to  the  sand-drawings,  which  repre- 
sented half  the  big  brands  between  the  Pan- 
handle and  the  Gila. 

"Sure  thing,"  replied  the  cowboy,  "I  Ve  run 


'em." 


[23] 


THE    TEXICAN 

"And  burnt  'em,  too,  eh?"  put  in  Critten- 
den,  shrewdly;  but  Pecos  Dalhart  was  not  as 
young  as  he  looked. 

"Not  on  your  life,"  he  countered,  warily, 
"that  don't  go  where  I  come  from." 

"Of  course  not,  of  course  not,"  assented  the 
cowman,  instantly  affecting  a  bluff  honesty, 
"and  it  don't  go  here,  neither,  if  any  one  should 
inquire.  A  man's  brand  is  his  property  and 
he  's  got  a  right  to  it  under  the  law.  I  Ve  got 
a  few  cows  here  myself  —  brand  1C  on  the  ribs 
—  and  I  'd  like  to  see  the  blankety-blank  that 
would  burn  it.  I  'd  throw  'm  in  the  pen,  if  it 
was  the  last  act.  Where  you  travellin'?" 

He  jerked  this  out  as  a  sort  of  challenge, 
and  the  cowboy  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Upton's,"  he  said  briefly. 

"Upton's!"  repeated  Crittenden,  "and  what 
do  you  figure  on  doin'  up  there?" 

"Well,  I  heard  he  was  a  good  feller  to  work 
for  —  thought  I  'd  take  on  for  a  cow  hand." 

Pecos  stated  the  proposition  judicially,  but 
as  lie  spoke  he  met  the  glowering  glance  of 

[24] 


THE     TEXICAN 

Crittenden  with  a  cold  and  calculating  eye. 
The  cattle-stealing  war  between  John  Upton 
of  Tonto  Basin  and  Old  Crit  of  Verde  Cross- 
ing was  no  secret  in  Arizona,  though  the 
bloody  Tewkesbury- Graham  feud  to  the  north 
took  away  from  its  spectacular  interest  and  re- 
duced it  to  the  sordid  level  of  commercialism. 
It  was,  in  fact,  a  contest  as  to  which  could  hire 
the  nerviest  cowboys  and  run  off  the  most  cattle, 
and  Pecos  Dalhart  knew  this  as  well  as  Isaac 
Crittenden.  They  stood  and  glared  at  each 
other  for  a  minute,  therefore,  and  then  Old 
Crit  broke  loose. 

"Whoever  told  you  that  John  Upton  is  a 
good  feller  is  a  liar!"  he  stormed,  bringing 
his  fist  down  into  his  hand.  "He  's  jest  a  com- 
mon, low-down  cow-thief,  as  I  've  told  him  to 
his  face;  and  a  man  that  will  steal  from  his 
friends  will  do  anything.  Now,  young  man, 
before  we  go  any  farther  I  want  to  tell  you 
what  kind  of  a  reptile  John  Upton  is.  Him 
and  me  run  our  cattle  over  in  Tonto  Basin  for 
years,  and  if  we  'd  ever  have  any  question 

[25] 


THE     TEXICAN 

about  a  calf  or  a  orehanna  I  'd  always  say, 
<Well,  take  'im,  John,'  jest  like  that,  because  I 
did  n't  want  to  have  no  racket  with  a  friend. 
But  they  's  some  people,  the  more  you  give  in 
to  'em  the  more  they  run  it  over  you,  and  they 
come  a  day  when  I  had  to  put  my  foot 
down  and  say,  'No,  that  calf  is  mine,'  and  I 
put  my  iron  on  'im  right  there.  Now  that  calf 
was  mine,  you  understand,  and  I  branded  him 
1C  on  the  ribs,  in  the  corral  and  before  wit- 
nesses, accordin'  to  law,  but  about  a  week  after- 
ward when  I  come  across  that  critter,  John 
Upton  had  run  a  big  U  after  my  brand,  makin' 
it  ICU.  Well,  you  may  laugh,  but  that 's  no 
kind  of  a  joke  to  play  on  a  friend  and  I  jest 
hopped  down  off'n  my  horse  and  run  a  figger 
2  after  it,  making  it  ICU2;  and  about  the  time 
John  Upton  gits  his  funny  ICU  brand  in  the 
book  I  goes  down  and  registers  ICU2,  goin' 
him  one  better.  Now  that's  carry  in'  a  joke 
pretty  far,  and  I  admit  it,  but  Upton  was  n't 
f unnin' ;  that  crooked-nose  dastard  had  set  out 
to  steal  my  cows  from  the  start  and,  seein'  I  'd 

[26] 


THE     TEXICAN 

euchered  him  on  the  ICU  racket  he  went  ahead 
and  slapped  a  big  J  in  front  of  my  1C  iron,  and 
began  branding  my  cows  into  what  he  called 
his  Jay-Eye-See  brand.  Well,  that  settled  it. 
I  'm  an  honest  man,  but  when  a  man  steals 
cows  from  me  I  don't  know  any  way  to  break 
even  in  this  country  but  to  steal  back,  and 
while  he  was  putting  his  J's  on  my  1C  critters 
I  jumped  in  and  put  IC2's  on  his  U's  until  he 
was  ready  to  quit.  He  's  afraid  to  burn  my 
brand  now  —  he  dassent  do  it  —  and  so  he  's 
beginnin'  to  squeal  because  I  've  got  'im  in  the 
door ;  but  say  — "  he  beckoned  with  his  head  - 
"come  over  here  by  the  corral,  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

Throughout  this  long  tale  of  woe  Pecos  Dai- 
hart  had  shown  but  scant  interest,  having  heard 
it  already,  with  variations,  from  Babe.  Ac- 
cording to  that  faithless  individual  Old  Crit 
would  steal  fleas  from  a  pet  monkey  and  skin 
them  for  the  hide  and  tallow;  his  favorite  pas- 
time, outside  of  cattle-rustling,  being  to  take 
on  cowboys  and  then  hold  out  their  pay,  a 

[27] 


THE     TEXICAN 

rumor  which  caused  Pecos  Dalhart  to  regard 
him  warily. 

"Now  say,''  began  the  Boss  of  Verde  Cross- 
ing, as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  hearing,  "you 
don't  need  to  go  to  that  hoss-thief  Upton  in 
order  to  git  a  job.  I  'm  always  lookin'  for  the 
right  kind  of  man,  myself.  Have  you  had  any 
experience  at  this  kind  of  thing?"  He  went 
through  the  dexterous  pantomime  of  burning 
a  brand  through  a  blanket,  but  the  cowboy  only 
turned  away  scornfully. 

"If  I  had  I  'd  never  be  dam'  fool  enough  to 
talk  about  it,"  he  said. 

"Oho!"  observed  Crit,  rubbing  the  side  of 
his  nose  slyly,  "you  're  travelling  for  your 
health,  are  you?" 

"No!"  snarled  the  Texan.  "The  only  peo- 
ple that  are  lookin'  for  me  are  tryin'  to  keep 
away  from  me,  so  you  don't  need  to  work  that 
auger  any  deeper.  Now,  Mr.  Crittenden,  I  'm 
a  man  of  few  words  —  what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

[28] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"We-ell,"  began  the  cowman,  and  once  more 
he  paused  to  meditate. 

"Since  you  inquire,"  continued  the  cowboy, 
"I  don't  mind  tellin'  you  that  I  'm  travellin'  for 
excitement  —  and  to  grab  some  money.  If 
you  Ve  got  any  proposition  that  might  appeal 
to  me,  spit  it  out  —  if  not,  they  's  no  harm 
done." 

"Well,  wait  a  minute!"  cried  Old  Crit,  pee- 
vishly. 

"My  time  's  valuable,"  observed  Pecos,  sen- 
tentiously.  "You  can  trust  me  as  good  as  I 
can  trust  you  —  mebby  better.  I  don't  hear 
nobody  accuse  you  of  being  sure  pay,  but  if  I 
take  your  job  I  want  you  to  remember  that  I 
draw  my  money  at  the  end  of  every  month  or 
else  I  collect  and  quit.  Now  if  you  can  jar 
that  proposition  out  of  your  system,  I  '11  listen 
to  it." 

"I  guess  you  '11  do,"  said  the  cowman,  as  if 
quieting  his  own  misgivings.  "I  Ve  got  a 
little  special  work  that  I  want  done  on  the 

[29] 


THE     TEXICAN 

quiet,  markin'  over  some  cows  and  calves.  The 
man  that  does  it  will  have  to  hide  out  up  in 
that  rough  country  and  I  '11  pay  him  —  forty 
dollars." 

"Eighty,"  said  the  Texan. 

"W'y,  I  'm  only  payin'  my  round-up  hands 
thirty,"  protested  Crittenden,  weakly;  "I'll 
give  you  fifty,  though." 

"Eighty,  cash,"  said  the  cowboy.  "You  '11 
make  that  on  the  first  ten  calves." 

"Sixty!"  pleaded  Crit. 

"I  want  my  money  in  my  hand  at  the  end  of 
every  month,"  added  Pecos,  and  then  there  was 
a  silence. 

"All  right,"  grumbled  the  cowman,  at  last, 
"but  you  understand  I  expect  something  to 
show  for  all  that  money.  Now  I  want  you  to 
go  around  the  corner  thar  like  you  was  mad,  'n' 
saddle  up  and  ride  on,  like  you  was  goin'  to 
Upton's.  Then  when  it  comes  night  I  want 
you  to  ride  back  and  camp  out  there  by  that 
big  ironwood  over  against  the  mesa.  As  soon 
as  me  and  the  boys  are  out  of  sight  in  the  morn- 

[30] 


THE     TEXICAN 

in'  my  Mexican,  Joe  Garcia,  will  come  out  to 
you  with  some  grub  and  take  you  over  to  Car- 
rizo  Springs,  and  I  want  you  to  stay  there  as 
long  as  I  keep  driftin'  U  cows  in  over  the 
Peaks.  Now  look  —  here  ss  your  job  —  I 
want  you  to  burn  every  one  of  them  Upton 
cows  over  into  a  Wine-glass"-  -  he  made  the 
figure  ¥  in  the  sand — "and  run  it  on  the 
calves.  Savvy?  Well,  git,  then,  and  remem- 
ber what  I  said  about  lookin'  mad  —  I  don't 
want  my  punchers  to  git  onto  this!" 


[31] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  DOUBLE  CROSS 

A  MONTH  passed,  drearily;  and  while 
Ike  Crittenden  and  his  punchers  gath- 
ered U  cows  on  one  side  of  the  Four  Peaks  and 
shoved  them  over  the  summit  Pecos  Dalhart 
roped  them  as  they  came  in  to  Carrizo  Springs 
for  water  and  doctored  over  their  brands.  The 
boys  were  following  in  the  wake  of  Upton's 
round-up  and  the  brands  on  the  calves  were 
freshly  made  and  therefore  easy  to  change,  but 
it  called  for  all  of  Pecos's  professional  skill  to 
alter  the  cow  brands  to  match.  In  order  not 
to  cause  adverse  comment  it  is  necessary  that 
the  cow  and  calf  shall  show  the  same  mark  and 
since  the  mother's  brand  was  always  old  and 
peeled  Pecos  called  into  requisition  a  square  of 
wet  gunny-sack  or  blanket  to  help  give  the  an- 
tique effect.  Spreading  this  over  the  old  U  he 

[32] 


THE    TEXICAN 

retraced  the  letter  through  it  with  a  red-hot 
iron  and  then  extended  the  brand  downward 
until  it  formed  a  neat  Wine-glass  ( V) ,  scalded 
rather  than  seared  into  the  hair.  Such  a  brand 
would  never  look  fresh  or  peel,  though  it  might 
grow  dim  with  years,  and  after  working  the 
ear-marks  over  on  cow  and  calf  the  transforma- 
tion was  complete.  But  while  the  results  of 
his  labor  was  a  fine  little  bunch  of  Wine-glass 
cows  hanging  around  Carrizo  Springs,  to 
Pecos  himself,  tying  a  knot  in  a  buckskin 
string  to  count  off  each  weary  day,  the  month 
seemed  interminable. 

There  was  a  sound  of  music  in  the  store  as 
he  rode  into  Verde  Crossing  and  he  spurred 
forward,  eager  for  the  sight  of  a  human  face 
and  a  chance  to  sit  down  and  talk.  But  at  the 
thud  of  hoofs  and  the  chink  of  spurs  Angevine 
Thorne  brought  his  song  to  an  untimely  close 
and,  as  Pecos  dismounted,  Marcelina  Garcia 
slipped  out  through  the  door  and  started  to- 
wards home,  favoring  him  in  passing  with  a 
haughty  stare. 

3  [33] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Good-morning,  Mex!"  he  exclaimed,  bow- 
ing and  touching  his  heart  in  an  excess  of  gal- 
lantry, "fine  large  day,  ain't  it?" 

"Gringo!"  shrilled  Marcelina,  flaunting  her 
dark  hair.  "PendejoTexano!  Ahhr!"  She 
shuddered  and  thrust  out  her  tongue  defiantly, 
but  as  the  "fool  Texan"  only  laughed  and  clat- 
tered into  the  store  she  paused  and  edged  back 
towards  the  door  for  further  observations. 

"W'y,  hello,  Angy!"  cried  Pecos,  racking 
jovially  up  to  the  bar,  "how  's  the  champeen? 
Sober  as  a  judge,  hey?  Well,  gimme  another 
shot  of  that  snake-pisen  and  if  it  don't  kill  me 
I  may  swear  off  too,  jest  to  be  sociable!  Say, 
what  does  'pendayho'  mean?"  He  glanced 
roguishly  back  towards  the  door,  where  he 
knew  Marcelina  was  listening,  and  laughed 
when  he  got  the  translation. 

"Dam'  fool,  hey?  Well,  I  thought  it  was 
something  like  that  —  kinder  p'lite  and  lady- 
like, you  know.  Marcelina  hung  that  on  me 
as  I  come  in,  but  I  called  her  a  Mex  and  I  '11 
stand  by  it.  Where  's  Old  Crit?" 


1 

THE     TEXICAN 

Angevine  Thorne  drew  himself  up  and  re- 
garded the  cowboy  with  grave  displeasure. 

"Mr.  Crittenden  is  out  riding,"  he  said,  "and 
I  '11  thank  you  not  to  refer  to  the  nativity  of 
my  friend,  Miss  Garcia." 

"Certainly  not  —  to  be  sure!"  protested 
Pecos  Dalhart.  "If  you  will  jest  kindly  give 
me  an  introduction  to  the  young  lady  I  '11  — " 

"See  you  in  hell  first,"  broke  in  Angy,  with 
asperity.  "Where  you  been  all  the  time?" 

"Ramblin'  around,  ramblin'  around,"  an- 
swered Pecos,  waving  his  hand  vaguely. 
"What 's  the  chances  for  a  little  music  and  song 
to  while  the  time  away?  I  'm  lonely  as  a  dog." 

"Joe  Garcia  tells  me  he  's  been  packin'  grub 
out  to  you  at  Carrizo  —  what  you  been  doin'  in 
that  God-forsaken  hole?" 

"Yore  friend  Joe  talks  too  much,"  observed 
Pecos,  briefly,  "and  I  reckon  you  tell  every- 
thing you  know,  don't  you?  Well  and  good, 
then,  I  '11  keep  you  out  of  trouble  with  the  Boss 
by  listenin'  to  what  you  know  already.  Can 
you  sing  the  'Ranger,'  or  'California  Joe'? 

[35] 


THE     TEXICAN 

No?  Can't  even  sing  'Kansas,'  can  you? 
Well,  it 's  too  bad  about  you,  but  I  'm  going 
to  show  you  that  they  's  another  canary  bird 
on  the  Verde,  and  he  can  sure  sing."  With 
this  declaration  Pecos  leaned  back  against  the 
bar,  squared  his  shoulders,  and  in  a  voice  which 
had  many  a  time  carolled  to  a  thousand  head 
of  cattle  burst  into  a  boastful  song. 

"Ooh,  I  can  take  the  wildest  bronco 
Of  the  wild  and  woolly  West; 
I  can  back  him,  I  can  ride  him, 
Let  him  do  his  level  best. 
I  can  handle  any  creature 
Ever  wore  a  coat  of  hair, 
And  I  had  a  lively  tussle 
With  a  tarnal  grizzly  bear." 

He  glanced  slyly  towards  the  door,  threw  out 
his  chest,  and  essayed  once  more  to  attract  the 
attention  of  his  girl,  if  she  was  anywhere  within 
a  mile. 

"Ooh,  I  can  rope  and  tie  a  long-horn, 
Of  the  wildest  Texas  brand, 
And  in  any  disagreement, 
I  can  play  a  leading  hand. 


[36] 


THE     TEXICAN 

A  dark  mass  of  hair  shading  a  pair  of  eyes 
as  black  and  inquisitive  as  a  chipmunk's  ap- 
peared suddenly  in  the  vacant  square  of  the 
doorway  and  instantly  the  bold  cowboy  stopped 
his  song. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Garcia,"  he  said,  bow- 
ing low,  "won't  you  come  in  —  now,  Angy,  do 
your  duty  or  I  '11  beat  you  to  death!"  At  this 
hasty  aside  Angevine  Thorne  did  the  honors, 
though  with  a  bad  grace. 

"Marcelina,  this  is  Mr.  Dalhart  —  you 
better  go  home  now,  your  mother 's  callin' 

you." 

"I  will  not  shake  hands  with  a  Teccano!"  pro- 
nounced Marcelina,  stepping  into  the  open  and 
folding  her  arms  disdainfully. 

"Come  on  in  then  and  hear  the  music,"  sug- 
gested Pecos,  peaceably. 

"Pah!  The  Tehannos  sing  like  coyotes!" 
cried  Marcelina,  twisting  up  her  lips  in  deri- 
sion. "They  are  bad,  bad  men  —  mi  madre 
say  so.  No,  I  go  home  —  and  when  you  are 
gone  Babe  will  sing  sweet  moosic  for  me."  She 

[37] 


THE     TEXICAN 

bowed,  with  a  little  smile  for  Babe,  and  glided 
through  the  doorway;  and  though  he  lingered 
about  until  Old  Grit  came  in,  Pecos  Dalhart 
failed  to  catch  another  glimpse  of  this  new 
queen  of  his  heart. 

It  was  dusk  when  Crittenden  rode  into  camp, 
and  at  sight  of  Pecos  Dalhart  sitting  by  the 
fire  the  cowman's  drawn  face,  pinched  by  hun- 
ger and  hard  riding,  puckered  up  into  a  knot. 

"What  you  doin'  down  here?"  he  demanded, 
when  he  had  beckoned  him  to  one  side. 

"Come  down  for  my  pay,"  responded  the 
cowboy,  briefly. 

"Your  pay,"  filmed  Crittenden,  "your  pay! 
What  do  you  need  with  money  up  at  Carrizo? 
Say,  have  you  been  gittin'  many?"  he  whis- 
pered, eagerly.  "Have  they  been  comin'  in  on 
you?" 

"Sure  thing.  Branded  forty-two  cows, 
thirty  calves,  and  sixteen  twos.  But  how 
about  it  —  do  I  draw?" 

"Only  thirty  calves  1  W'y,  what  in  the  world 
have  you  been  doin'?  I  could  pick  up  that 

[38] 


THE     TEXICAN 

many  mavericks   on  the   open  range.     You 
must  've  been  layin'  down  under  a  tree !" 

"That 's  right,"  agreed  Pecos,  "and  talkin' 
to  myse'f,  I  was  that  lonely.  But  if  you  '11 
kindly  fork  over  that  eighty  that 's  comin'  to  me 
we'll  call  it  square,  all  the  same  —  I  only 
branded  about  a  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
cows  for  you." 

"Eighty  dollars!"  cried  Old  Crit.  "W'y,  I 
never  agreed  to  nothin'  like  that  —  I  said  I  'd 
give  you  sixty.  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11 
do,"  he  added,  quickly,  "I  '11  make  it  eighty  if 
you  '11  go  up  there  for  another  month." 

"After  I  git  my  first  month's  pay  they  will 
be  time  to  discuss  that,"  replied  Pecos  Dalhart, 
and  after  a  thousand  protestations  the  cowman 
finally  went  down  into  his  overalls  and  pro- 
duced the  money. 

"Now  what  about  next  month?"  he  de- 
manded, sharply. 

"Nope,"  said  Pecos,  pocketing  his  eighty 
dollars,  "too  lonely  —  too  much  trouble  col- 
lectin'  my  pay  —  don't  like  the  job." 

[39] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Give  you  eighty  dollars,"  urged  Crit, 
"that 's  a  heap  o'  money  for  one  month." 

"Nope,  this  11  last  me  a  while  —  so  long." 
He  started  toward  the  corral  but  Crittenden 
caught  him  by  the  arm  instantly. 

"Here,  wait  a  minute,"  he  rasped,  "what 's 
the  matter  with  you  anyhow?  I  'm  ridin'  early 
and  late  on  my  round-up  and  dependin'  on  you 
to  finish  this  job  up!  You  ain't  goin'  to  quit 
me  right  in  the  middle  of  it,  are  you?" 

"That 's  what,"  returned  Pecos.  "I  ain't  so 
particular  about  brandin'  a  maverick  once  in  a 
while  —  every  cowman  does  that  —  but  this 
idee  of  stealin'  from  a  man  you  never  saw  goes 
agin'  me.  I  git  to  thinkin'  about  it,  an'  it  ain't 
right!" 

"Aw,  sho,  sho,  boy,"  protested  Crittenden, 
"you  don't  want  to  mind  a  little  thing  like  that 
—  I  thought  you  was  a  man  with  nerve.  Now 
here,  I  can't  stop  to  go  out  there  now  and  I 
want  to  git  that  work  finished  up  —  I  '11  give 
you  eight-y-five  dol-lars  to  stay  another  month ! 
This  man  Upton  is  the  biggest  cow-thief  in  the 

[40] 


THE     TEXICAN 

country/'  he  went  on,  as  Pecos  shook  his  head, 
"it  ain't  stealin'  to  rob  a  thief,  is  it?" 

"Oh,  ain't  it?"  inquired  the  cow-puncher, 
gravely,  and  he  smiled  grimly  to  himself  as 
Crittenden  endeavored  to  set  his  mind  at  rest. 
"All  right  then,"  he  said,  cutting  short  the  cow- 
man's labored  justification  of  cattle-rustling, 
"I  '11  go  you  —  for  a  hundred." 

"A  hundred!"  repeated  Crittenden,  aghast. 
"Well,  for  — aU  right,  aU  right,"  he  cried,  as 
Pecos  moved  impatiently  away.  "Now  you 
pull  out  of  here  the  way  you  did  before  and  I  '11 
have  Joe  pack  you  over  some  more  grub.  A 
hun-dred  dollars,"  he  murmured,  shaking  his 
head  at  the  thought,  "that  boy  will  ruin  me." 

Early  the  next  morning  Pecos  Dalhart  rode 
slowly  up  the  trail  that  led  to  Carrizo  Springs 
and  the  deserted  country  beyond,  a  land  where 
as  yet  the  cowmen  had  not  extended  their  sway. 
To  his  left  rose  the  sharp  granite  spires  of  the 
Four  Peaks,  to  the  right  gleamed  the  silvery 
thread  of  the  Salagua,  that  mighty  river  that 
flowed  in  from  the  east ;  and  all  the  country  be- 

[41] 


THE    TEXICAN 

tween  was  a  jumble  of  cliffs  and  buttes  and 
ridges  and  black  canons,  leading  from  the 
mountains  to  the  river. 

"So  it  ain't  no  crime  to  rob  a  thief,  hey?"  he 
muttered,  when,  topping  the  last  ridge,  he 
gazed  down  at  Carrizo  Springs  and  across  at 
the  white-worn  trail  which  led  into  the  wilder- 
ness beyond.  "Well,  if  that 's  the  case  I  might 
as  well  search  out  that  country  over  there  and 
git  busy  on  Old  Crit.  A  man  's  a  dam'  fool  to 
steal  a  thousand  dollars'*  worth  of  cattle  and 
only  git  eighty  dollars  for  it." 

Three  days  later,  riding  by  a  trail  that  led 
ever  to  the  east,  Pecos  came  upon  a  narrow  val- 
ley filled  with  cottonwoods  and  wild  walnuts 
and  echoing  to  the  music  of  running  water.  A 
fine  brook,  flowing  down  from  the  brushy 
heights  of  the  Peaks,  leaped  and  tumbled  over 
the  bowlders  and  disappeared  through  a  narrow 
cleft  below,  where  the  two  black  walls  drew 
together  until  they  seemed  almost  to  block 
the  canon.  As  Pecos  rode  cautiously  down  the 
creek-bed  he  jumped  a  bunch  of  cattle  from 

[42] 


THE     TEXICAN 

the  shade  of  the  alders  and,  spurring  after  them 
as  they  shambled  off,  he  saw  that  they  bore  the 
familiar  U,  even  to  the  young  calves.  Un- 
doubtedly they  belonged  to  the  same  bunch 
that  he  had  been  working  on  over  at  Carrizo 
Springs  —  the  fresh-branded  calves  and  U 
cows  that  Crittenden  was  shoving  over  the 
Peaks.  Riding  farther  down  the  gulch  Pecos 
came  upon  a  cave  at  the  base  of  the  overhang- 
ing cliff.  In  time  past  the  Indians  had  camped 
there,  but  the  ashes  of  their  fires  were  bedded 
and  only  their  crude  pictures  on  the  smoke- 
grimed  rocks  remained  to  tell  the  tale.  It  was 
the  cave  of  Lost  Dog  Canon. 

On  their  trip  over  the  simple-minded  Jose 
had  spoken  of  a  lost  canon  somewhere  over  in 
the  mountains  but  Pecos  had  never  dreamed 
of  finding  a  paradise  like  this.  According  to 
Jose  the  Canon  of  Perro  Perdito  was  haunted 
by  a  spirit  which  was  muy  malOj  throwing  down 
great  rocks  from  the  sides  of  the  canon  and 
howling  like  a  lost  dog  at  night,  but  in  the 
broad  light  of  noonday  Pecos  was  undaunted 


THE     TEXICAN 

and  he  rode  on  into  the  tunnel-like  box  canon 
until  it  pinched  down  to  a  mere  cleft.  It  was 
an  eerie  place,  but  there  never  was  a  ghost  yet 
that  threw  a  track  like  a  cow  and,  led  on  by 
their  familiar  foot-prints  among  the  rocks, 
Pecos  forged  ahead  until  he  stepped  out  sud- 
denly into  a  new  world.  Behind  him  the  pent 
and  overhanging  walls  shut  out  the  light  of 
day  but  here  the  sun  was  shining  into  a  deep 
valley  where  in  exquisite  miniature  lay  parks 
and  grassy  meadows,  while  cathedral  spires  of 
limestone,  rising  from  the  canon  floor,  joined 
their  mighty  flanks  to  the  rim-rock  which  shut 
the  whole  space  in.  The  glittering  waters  of 
the  Salagua,  far  below,  marked  a  natural  bar- 
rier to  the  south  and  as  Pecos  Dalhart  looked 
at  the  narrow  trail  which  had  brought  him  in  he 
began  instinctively  to  figure  on  a  drift  fence, 
to  close  the  entrance  to  the  pocket,  and  make 
the  hidden  valley  a  mile- wide  pasture  and  cor- 
ral. All  nature  seemed  conspiring  to  make 
him  a  cattle-rustler  and  this  hidden  pasture, 
with  its  grass  and  water  and  the  gate  opening 

[44] 


THE     TEXICAN 

at  his  very  door,  cast  the  die.  Two  days  later 
he  moved  his  camp  to  Lost  Dog  Canon  and  flew 
at  the  fence  with  feverish  energy.  Within  a 
week  he  had  the  box  canon  barricaded  from  wall 
to  wall  and  then,  as  the  U  cows  came  down  to 
the  creek  to  drink,  he  roped  them,  worked  over 
their  brands,  and  threw  them  into  his  new  pas- 
ture. By  this  time,  with  his  tongue  in  his 
cheek,  he  attached  a  circle  instead  of  a  bar  to 
the  U  and  named  his  new  brand  the  Monkey- 
wrench  (<!>).  If  he  had  any  qualms  as  to 
the  morality  of  this  last  act  Pecos  did  not  let 
them  interfere  with  his  industry  in  any  way. 
The  ethics  of  the  cattle  business  will  not  stand 
too  stern  a  scrutiny,  even  at  this  late  date,  and 
the  joke  on  Old  Grit  was  so  primordial  in  its 
duplicity  that  it  obscured  the  finer  moral  issues. 
Like  many  another  cowman  of  those  early  days 
Pecos  Dalhart  had  made  his  start  with  the  run- 
ning iron  and  with  luck  and  judgment  he 
might  yet  be  a  cattle  king. 


[45] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SHOW-DOWN 

IT  is  a  great  sensation  to  feel  that  you  are  a 
prospective  cattle  king,  but  somehow  when 
Pecos  Dalhart  rode  back  to  Verde  Crossing  his 
accustomed  gaiety  had  fled.  There  were  no 
bows  and  smiles  for  Marcelina,  no  wordy  ex- 
changes with  the  garrulous  Babe  —  there  is  a 
difference,  after  all,  between  stealing  cows  for 
eighty  dollars  a  month  and  stealing  for  your- 
self, and  while  a  moralist  might  fail  to  see  the 
distinction  it  showed  in  its  effect  on  Pecos's 
spirits. 

"I  'm  goin'  down  to  Geronimo,"  he  grum- 
bled, after  an  uneasy  hour  at  the  store,  during 
which  he  had  tried  in  vain  the  cheering  power 
of  whiskey;  "you  can  tell  Crit  I  '11  be  back  to- 
morrow night  for  my  time,"  and  without  vol- 
unteering any  further  information  he  rode 

[46] 


THE     TEXICAN 

down  to  the  river,  plunged  across  the  rocky 
ford  and  was  swallowed  up  in  the  desert.  Two 
days  later  he  returned,  red-eyed  and  taciturn, 
and  to  all  Babe's  inquiries  he  observed  that  the 
Geronimo  saloons  were  the  worst  deadfalls 
west  of  the  Rio  Grande,  for  a  certainty.  His 
mood  did  not  improve  by  waiting,  and  when 
Crittenden  finally  rode  in  after  his  long  day's 
work  he  demanded  his  money  so  brusquely  that 
even  that  old-timer  was  startled. 

"Well,  sho,  sho,  boy,"  he  soothed,  "don't  git 
excited  over  nothin' !  To  be  sure  I  '11  pay  you 
your  money."  He  went  down  into  his  overalls 
with  commendable  promptitude,  but  Pecos  only 
watched  him  in  surly  silence.  Something  in  his 
pose  seemed  to  impress  the  shifty  cowman;  he 
drew  forth  a  roll  of  bills  and  began  to  count 
them  out,  reluctantly.  "Twenty,  forty,  sixty, 
eighty,  a  hundred  —  there  it  is  —  now  what 's 
all  this  racket  about?" 

"Nothin',"  responded  Pecos,  stowing  away 
the  greenbacks,  "but  you  can  git  somebody  else 
to  finish  up  that  job." 

[47] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Well,  here,"  snapped  the  cowman,  warm- 
ing up  a  little  as  Dalhart  cooled  down,  "don't 
I  git  no  accountin'  for  this  month's  work? 
How  many  did  yom  brand  and  what  you 
quittin'  for?" 

"I  branded  sixty-seven  cows,  fifty-five 
calves,  and  thirty  two-year-olds,"  replied  the 
cowboy,  boldly,  and  Crittenden,  not  know- 
ing in  what  iron  they  were  branded,  chuckled 
gleefully. 

"Umm,"  he  murmured,  "wall,  say  now,  that 
ain't  so  bad.  Old  Upton  will  make  a  buck- 
jump  at  the  moon  when  he  finds  this  out.  But 
lookee  here,  boy,  I  'm  goin'  to  be  driftin'  cows 
into  that  country  for  another  month  yet,  and 
that  '11  be  as  long  as  we  can  brand  and  ear-mark 
on  account  of  the  flies  in  June.  Now  I  want 
to  make  a  dicker  with  you  for  jest  one  more 
month  and  I  '11  be  generous  with  you  —  how 
about  a  hundred  and  ten  —  that 's  pretty  nigh 
four  months'  wages  for  a  cow-punch!" 

"No,  I  've  done  quit!"  protested  Pecos,  vig- 
orously. "Steal  your  own  cattle!  When  I 

[48] 


THE     TEXICAN 

want  to  go  into  the  rustlin'  business  I  '11  rustle 
for  myse'f!" 

"Jest  one  more  month,"  insisted  Old  Crit, 
"I  '11  give  you  a  hundred  and  twenty!" 

The  cowboy  looked  at  him  a  minute  and 
smiled  sneeringly.  "Well,  bein'  as  yore  money 
seems  to  be  burnin'  a  hole  in  yore  pocket,"  he 
said,  "I  guess  I  '11  have  to  take  it  away  from 
you,  but  I  '11  tell  you  right  now  I  don't  ap- 
prove of  this  cow-stealin' —  it 's  likely  to  git  a 
man  into  trouble!" 

"All  right,  all  right,"  said  Crittenden,  mak- 
ing haste  to  clinch  the  bargain,  "a  hundred  and 
twenty,  then ;  and  they  hain't  nobody  ever  been 
convicted  in  Geronimo  County  yet  for  stealin' 
cows,  so  you  don't  need  to  worry  none.  Pull 
your  freight,  now,  and  I  '11  be  over  later  on  to 
see  what  you  've  done." 

As  Pecos  Dalhart  and  Jose  Garcia  rode  up 
the  Carrizo  trail  the  next  morning  driving  their 
pack  animals  before  them,  the  conversation 
was  chiefly  between  Jose  and  his  mules.  Pecos 
did  not  approve  of  Mexicans  and  Jose  did  not 

4  [49] 


THE     TEXICAN 

approve  of  Pecos  —  he  had  been  making  love 
to  his  girl,  Marcelina.  But  about  a  mile  out 
of  Verde  Crossing  they  came  across  an  object 
that  was  worthy  of  comment  —  an  old  cow  and 
her  calf,  both  so  curiously  marked  that  no  cow- 
boy could  pass  them  unnoticed.  The  cow  was 
covered  from  shoulder  to  flank  with  minute  red 
and  white  spots  and,  plastered  generously 
across  her  face,  was  a  variegated  blotch  of  the 
creamy  dun  color  peculiar  to  Chihuahua  stock. 
The  calf  was  like  its  mother,  even  to  the  dun 
face  and  spotted  neck  and  ears,  but  she,  on  ac- 
count of  her  brand  and  ear-marks,  held  the 
entire  attention  of  the  Texan. 

"What  brand  you  call  that,  Joe?"  he  in- 
quired, as  the  old  cow  contemplated  them  from 
the  hillside. 

"Mi  fiero!"  exclaimed  the  Mexican,  proudly 
tapping  himself  on  the  chest. 

"Oh,  it 's  yourn,  is  it?"  commented  Pecos. 
"Looks  like  an  Injun  arrer  struck  by  lightnin', 
don't  it?  Well,  these  Mexican  irons  are  too 

[50] 


THE     TEXICAN 

many  for  me  —  I  see  you  got  winders  in  her 
ears!" 

"You  bet,"  assented  Joe,  "that  my  mark,  un 
ventano,  un  slahsh,  un  anzuelo!" 

"A  window,  a  slash,  and  an  underbit,  hey  — 
you  don't  figure  on  anybody  stealin'  her,  unless 
they  cut  'er  ears  off,  do  you?  How  many  cows 
you  got?" 

"Oh,  six  —  eight,"  answered  Jose,  pride  of 
possession  loosening  up  his  tongue,  "this  good 
milk  cow." 

"Milk  cow,  eh?"  repeated  Pecos,  and  then  he 
stopped  and  pondered  a  while.  Only  the  day 
before  he  had  recorded  his  Monkey-wrench 
brand  at  Geronimo,  although  he  did  not  have 
an  honestly  acquired  cow  in  the  world  —  here 
was  a  chance  to  cover  his  hand.  "How  much 
you  take  for  cow,  Joe?"  he  asked.  "I  like 
milk,  my  camp." 

"You  take  calf  too?"  inquired  the  Mexican, 
shrewdly. 

"Sure,"  said  Pecos,  "give  you  twenty  dollars 

[51] 


THE    TEXICAN 

for  the  cow  and  ten  for  the  calf!"  He  drew  a 
roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket  and  began  to  peel 
them  off  temptingly. 

"You  geev  twenty-five  for  cow,"  suggested 
Joe,  his  slow  wits  beginning  to  move  at  the  sight 
of  real  money. 

"All  right,"  said  Pecos,  briskly,  "I  '11  give 
you  twenty-five  for  the  cow  and  five  for  the 
calf  —  but  you  have  to  give  me  bill  of  sale." 

"Stawano"  assented  the  Mexican,  "and  I 
vent  her  when  we  geet  to  camp,  too.  Dam'  Ol' 
Crit,"  he  observed,  as  he  pocketed  the  money, 
"I  work  for  heem  long  time  —  he  make  me 
take  trade  een  store  —  all  time  in  debt!" 

He  threw  the  spotted  cow  and  calf  in  with 
the  pack  animals  and  when  they  had  arrived 
at  Carrizo  Springs  he  roped  her  and,  true  to 
his  promise,  ran  his  Indian  arrow  brand  on  her 
shoulder,  thus  making  her  a  living  document 
and  memorandum  of  sale.  In  the  cow  country 
that  "vent"  on  the  shoulder  is  the  only  bill  of 
sale  required,  but  Pecos  drew  up  a  formal  paper 
giving  the  ear-marks  and  brand,  and  after  Joe 

[52] 


THE     TEXICAN 

had  signed  it  and  gone  he  roped  Old  Funny- 
face  again  and  ran  a  Monkey-wrench  on  her 
ribs  beneath  the  original  mark,  all  of  which  is 
strictly  according  to  law.  After  that  he  herded 
her  close,  letting  the  little  Monkey-wrench  calf 
have  all  the  milk,  while  he  waited  expectantly 
for  Old  Grit  to  drop  in. 

At  the  beginning  of  his  long  month  of  wait- 
ing Pecos  Dalhart  was  watchful  and  conserva- 
tive. He  branded  up  all  the  cattle  that  had 
drifted  into  Lost  Dog  Canon,  drove  them 
down  into  his  hidden  pasture  and  closed  the 
breach  in  his  drift  fence  —  then  he  moved  back 
to  Carrizo  and  went  soberly  about  his  work. 
Old  Funny-face  and  her  spotted  calf  were  the 
only  Monkey-wrench  cows  at  Carrizo  Springs 
and  though  he  held  a  bill  of  sale  for  them 
Pecos  was  finally  compelled  to  drive  them  over 
the  trail  to  his  Lost  Dog  pasture  in  order  to 
keep  them  from  sneaking  back  home  to  Verde 
Crossing  and  tipping  his  hand  prematurely  to 
Isaac  Crittenden.  He  was  a  hard  man,  Old 
Crit,  especially  when  his  pocket-book  was 

[53] 


THE     TEXICAN 

touched,  and  Pecos  looked  for  a  gunplay  when 
the  Boss  finally  found  him  out;  but  if  Crit- 
tenden  got  wind  of  his  duplicity  in  advance  he 
might  come  over  with  all  his  Texas  cowboys 
and  wipe  Mr.  Pecos  Dalhart  off  the  map.  So 
at  the  start  he  was  careful,  running  nothing 
but  Wine-glasses  on  the  U  cows  that  still  came 
drifting  in  over  the  mountains,  but  as  the  days 
went  by  and  his  courage  mounted  up  against 
the  time  when  he  was  to  face  Old  Crit  a  spirit 
of  bravado  crept  in  on  him  and  made  him  over- 
bold. All  he  wanted  now  was  a  show-down, 
and  he  wanted  it  quick  —  one  Monkey-wrench 
brand  would  tell  the  story.  With  a  sardonic 
grin  Pecos  put  his  rope  on  a  likely  young  mav- 
erick and  burned  a  Monkey-wrench  on  his  ribs ; 
then,  in  order  that  there  should  be  no  mistake, 
he  worked  over  the  brand  on  a  U  cow  and  put 
his  iron  on  the  calf.  As  the  last  days  of  the 
month  dragged  by  and  the  fighting  spirit 
within  him  clamored  for  action  he  threw  cau- 
tion to  the  winds,  running  a  Monkey-wrench  on 
every  cow-brute  he  caught. 

[54] 


THE     TEXICAN 

For  weeks  Pecos  had  watched  the  brow  of 
the  hill  where  the  Verde  trail  came  in,  and  he 
wore  his  six-shooter  constantly,  even  at  his 
branding,  but  when  at  last  Crittenden  finally 
rode  in  on  him  he  was  so  intent  about  his  work 
that  he  almost  overlooked  him.  Only  the 
fidgeting  of  his  horse,  which  was  holding  the 
rope  taut  on  a  big  U  cow  that  he  had  strung 
out,  saved  him  from  being  surprised  at  his 
task  and  taken  at  a  disadvantage.  One  glance 
was  enough  —  it  was  Crit,  and  he  was  alone. 
Pecos  stood  up  and  looked  at  him  as  he  came 
slowly  down  the  hill  —  then,  as  the  cow  strug- 
gled to  get  up,  he  seized  his  running  iron 
from  the  fire,  spread  a  wet  sack  over  her  brand, 
and  burned  a  big  Monkey-wrench  through  the 
steaming  cloth. 

"Hello!"  hailed  the  cowman,  spurring 
eagerly  in  on  him.  "Are  you  catchin'  many?" 

"Oodles  of  'em!"  answered  Pecos,  loosen- 
ing his  tie-down  strings  and  swinging  up  on 
his  horse.  "Git  up  there,  cow,  and  show 
yourse'f  off  to  the  Boss!"  He  slackened  the 

[55] 


THE    TEXICAN 

taut  reata  that  was  fastened  around  her  hind 
feet  and  as  the  old  cow  sprang  up,  shaking  off 
the  sack,  the  smoking  Monkey-wrench  on  her 
ribs  stood  out  like  hand- writing  on  the  wall. 

"Wh- what's  that?"  gasped  Crit,  staring  at 
the  mark.  "I  thought  I  told  you  to  run  a 
Wine-glass!" 

"That 's  right,"  assented  Pecos,  dropping 
his  hand  to  his  hip,  "but  I  got  tired  of  runnin' 
your  old  brand,  so  I  studied  out  a  little  im- 
provement!" 

He  laughed  hectoringly  as  he  spoke  and  the 
realization  of  the  fraud  that  had  been  perpe- 
trated upon  him  made  Crittenden  reel  in  the 
saddle. 

"Hev  —  hev  you  recorded  that  brand?"  he 
demanded,  tensely. 

"I  certainly  have,"  responded  Pecos,  "and 
I  did  n't  see  no  Wine-glass  registered  before 
me,  neither.  If  I  'd  been  real  foxy,  like  some 
people  I  know,  I  would  've  put  that  in  the  book 
too  and  euchered  you  out  of  the  whole  bunch. 
But  I  'm  good-natured,  Mr.  Crittenden,  and 

[56] 


Pecos's  ever-ready  pistol  was  out  and  balanced 
in  his  hand 


THE    TEXICAN 

bein'  as  I  was  takin'  your  money  I  branded 
most  of  these  U  cows  in  the  Wine-glass.  I 
hope  you  '11  be  able  to  take  this  reasonable." 

"Reasonable!"  screamed  Crittenden,  "rea- 
sonable !  W'y,  if  I  was  n't  the  most  reason- 
able man  on  earth  I  'd  shoot  you  so  full  of 
lead  it  'd  take  a  wagon  to  haul  you  to  the  grave- 
yard. But  you  don't  know  who  you're  up 
against,  boy,  if  you  think  you  can  fool  me  like 
this  —  the  man  don't  live  that  can  give  Ike 
Crittenden  the  double  cross.  I  been  in  the 
business  too  long.  Now  I  give  you  jest  five 
minutes  to  make  me  out  a  bill  of  sale  for  your 
entire  brand,  whatever  you  call  it.  Ef  you 


He  rose  up  threateningly  in  his  stirrups  and 
his  one  good  eye  glared  balefully,  but  Pecos 
had  been  expecting  something  like  this  for  a 
month  or  more  and  he  did  not  weaken. 

"Go  ahead,"  he  said,  "my  brand  is  the 
Monkey-wrench  ;  I  come  by  it  as  honest  as  you 
come  by  the  Wine-glass,  and  I  '11  fight  for  it. 
If  you  crowd  me  too  hard,  I  '11  shoot;  and  if 

[57] 


THE     TEXICAN 

you  try  to  run  me  out  of  the  country  1 11  give 
the  whole  snap  away  to  Upton." 

"W'y,  you  son  of  a  — "  began  the  cowman 
malignantly,  but  he  did  not  specify.  Pecos's 
ever-ready  pistol  was  out  and  balanced  in  his 
hand. 

"That  '11  do,  Mr.  Crittenden,"  he  said,  edg- 
ing his  horse  in  closer.  "I  never  took  that  off 
o'  nobody  yet,  and  't  ain't  likely  I  '11  begin  with 
you.  If  you  're  lookin'  for  trouble  you  '11  find 
I  can  accommodate  you,  any  time  —  but  listen 
to  reason,  now.  This  ain't  the  first  time  a 
cowman  has  got  himse'f  into  trouble  by  hirin' 
somebody  else  to  do  his  stealin'  for  him  —  I  've 
been  around  some,  and  I  know.  But  they 
ain't  no  use  of  us  fightin'  each  other  —  we  're 
both  in  the  same  line  of  business.  You  leave 
me  alone  and  I  '11  keep  shut  about  this  —  is 
it  a  go?" 

The  fires  of  inextinguishable  hate  were  burn- 
ing in  Old  Grit's  eye  and  his  jaw  trembled  as 
he  tried  to  talk. 

"Young  man,"  he  began,  wagging  a  warning 
[58] 


THE    TEXICAN 

finger  at  his  enemy,  "young  man — "  He 
paused  and  cursed  to  himself  fervently.  "How 
much  will  you  take  for  your  brand?"  he  cried, 
trying  to  curb  his  wrath,  "and  agree  to  quit 
the  country?" 

"I  ain't  that  kind  of  a  hold-up,"  replied 
Pecos,  promptly.  "I  like  this  country  and 
I  'm  goin'  to  live  here.  They  's  two  or  three 
hundred  head  of  cattle  running  in  here  that 
I  branded  for  you  for  a  hundred  and  eighty 
dollars.  They  're  worth  two  or  three  thou- 
sand. I  've  got  a  little  bunch  myself  that  I 
picked  up  on  the  side,  when  I  was  n't  stealin' 
for  you.  Now  all  I  ask  is  to  be  left  alone,  and 
I  '11  do  the  same  by  you.  Is  it  a  go?" 

The  cold  light  of  reason  came  into  Crit- 
tenden's  fiery  orb  and  glittered  like  the  hard 
finish  of  an  agate. 

"Well,"  he  said,  grudgingly,  "well  —  oh 
hell,  yes!"  He  urged  his  horse  sullenly  up  the 
hill.  "Another  one  of  them  smart  Texicans," 
he  muttered,  "but  I  '11  cure  him  of  suckin'  eggs 
before  I  'm  through  with  'im." 

[59] 


CHAPTER  V 

LOST  DOG  CANON 

silence  of  absolute  loneliness  lay  upon 
JL  Lost  Dog  Canon  like  a  pall  and  to 
Pecos  Dalhart,  sprawling  in  the  door  of  his 
cave,  it  seemed  as  if  mysterious  voices  were 
murmuring  to  each  other  behind  the  hollow 
gurgling  of  the  creek.  From  far  down  the 
canon  the  bawling  of  cows,  chafing  against 
the  drift  fence,  echoed  with  dreary  persistence 
among  the  cliffs,  and  the  deep  subterranean 
rumbling  which  gave  the  place  its  bad  name 
broke  in  upon  his  meditations  like  the  stirring 
of  some  uneasy  devil  confined  below.  On  the 
rim  of  the  black  canon  wall  that  rose  against 
him  a  flock  of  buzzards  sat  in  a  tawdry  row, 
preening  their  rusty  feathers  or  hopping 
awkwardly  about  in  petty,  ineffectual  quarrels 
—  as  shabby  a  set  of  loafers  as  ever  basked 
in  the  sun.  For  a  week  Pecos  had  idled  about 

[60] 


THE    TEXICAN 

his  cave,  now  building  pole  houses  to  protect 
his  provisions  from  the  rats,  now  going  out  to 
the  point  to  watch  the  Verde  trail,  until  the 
emptiness  of  it  had  maddened  him.  At  first 
he  had  looked  for  trouble  —  the  veiled  treach- 
ery of  some  gun-man,  happening  in  on  him  ac- 
cidentally, or  an  armed  attack  from  Old  Grit's 
cowboys  —  but  now  he  would  welcome  the  ap- 
pearance of  Crit  himself.  In  action  Pecos 
could  trust  his  nerves  absolutely,  but  he  chafed 
at  delay  like  a  spirited  horse  that  frets  con- 
stantly at  the  bit.  If  it  was  to  be  a  game  of 
waiting  Crittenden  had  won  already.  Pecos 
threw  away  his  cigarette  impatiently  and  hur- 
ried down  the  canon  to  catch  his  horse. 

" Where's  Old  Crit?"  he  demanded  when, 
after  a  long  ride,  he  stalked  defiantly  into  the 
store  at  Verde  Crossing. 

"Damfino,"  replied  Babe,  looking  up  from 
a  newspaper  he  was  reading,  "gone  down  to 
Geronimo,  I  guess." 

"Is  he  lookin'  for  me?"  inquired  Pecos, 
guardedly. 

[61] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"W'y,  not  so  's  you  notice  it,"  answered  the 
bar-keeper,  easily.  "It  'd  be  the  first  case  on 
record,  I  reckon,  bein'  as  he  owes  you  money. 
In  fact,  until  you  collect  your  last  month's  pay 
the  chances  are  good  that  you  '11  be  lookin'  for 
him.  Did  you  see  the  new  sign  over  the  door  ?" 

"No,"  said  Pecos,  "what  is  it?" 

"Post  Office!"  replied  Babe,  proudly. 
"Yes,  sir,  Old  Good  Eye  has  certainly  knocked 
the  persimmon  this  time  and  put  Verde  Cross- 
ing on  the  map.  They  's  lots  of  ranchers  up 
and  down  the  river  —  and  you,  of  course,  over 
there  at  Carrizo  —  and  Grit  figured  it  out 
some  time  ago  that  if  he  could  git  'em  to  come 
here  for  their  mail  he  'd  catch  their  trade  in 
whiskey;  so  what  does  he  do  but  apply  to  the 
Post  Office  Department  for  a  mail  route  from 
here  to  Geronimo  and  bid  in  the  contract  him- 
self! Has  to  send  Joe  down  about  once  a 
week,  anyhow,  you  understand,  and  he  might 
as  well  git  the  Government  to  pay  for  it.  So 
you  can  write  home  to  your  folks  now  to  send 
your  mail  to  Verde  Crossing  —  tell  your  girl 

[62] 


THE     TEXICAN 

too,  because  if  we  don't  git  ten  letters  a  week 
we  lose  our  route." 

Pecos  twisted  uneasily  on  his  chair.  Like 
many  another  good  Texan  he  was  not  writing 
home. 

"Ain't  got  no  girl,"  he  protested,  blushing 
beneath  his  tan. 

"No?"  said  Angy,  "well  that 's  good  news 
for  Marcelina  —  she  was  inquirin'  about  you 
the  other  day.  But  say,  here  's  some  advertise- 
ments in  this  paper  that  might  interest  you. 
Umm  —  lemme  see,  now — *  Genuine  Dia- 
monds, rings,  earrings,  and  brooches,  dollar 
forty-eight  a  piece,  to  introduce  our  new  line.' 
That 's  pretty  cheap,  ain't  it !  'Always  ac- 
ceptable to  a  lady,'  it  says.  Yes,  if  you  don't 
want  'em  yourself  you  can  give  'em  away,  see  ? 
You  know,  I  'm  try  in'  to  git  the  fellers  around 
here  interested,  so  's  they  '11  write  more  letters." 

He  threw  this  out  for  a  feeler  and  Pecos 
responded  nobly.  "Well,  go  ahead  and  order 
me  them  rings  and  earrings,"  he  said,  "I  'm  no 
cheap  sport.  What  else  you  got  that 's  good?" 

[63] 


THE     TEXICAN 

Angevine  Thorne  dropped  his  paper  and 
reached  stealthily  for  a  large  mail-order  cata- 
logue on  the  counter.  "Aprons,  bath-tubs, 
curtains,  dishes,"  he  read,  running  his  finger 
down  the  index.  "Here  's  some  silk  handker- 
chiefs that  might  suit  you;  'green,  red,  blue, 
and  yaller,  sixty  cents  each;  with  embroidered 
initials,  twenty  cents  extra.' ' 

"I'll  go  you!"  cried  the  cowboy,  looking 
over  his  shoulder.  "Gimme  half  a  dozen  of 
them  red  ones  —  no  squaw  colors  for  me  — 
and  say,  lemme  look  at  them  aprons." 

"Aprons !"  yelled  Angy.     "Well  —  what  - 
the—" 

"Aw,  shut  up!"  snarled  Pecos,  blushing 
furiously.  "Can't  you  take  a  joke?  Here, 
gimme  that  catalogue  —  you  ain't  the  only 
man  on  the  Verde  that  can  read  and  write  — 
I  Ve  had  some  schoolin'  myself!" 

He  retired  to  a  dark  corner  with  the  "poor 
man's  enemy"  and  pored  over  it  laboriously, 
scrawling  from  time  to  time  upon  an  order 
blank  which  Angy  had  thoughtfully  provided. 

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THE     TEXICAN 

At  last  the  deed  was  done,  all  but  adding  up 
the  total,  and  after  an  abortive  try  or  two  the 
cowboy  slipped  in  a  twenty-dollar  bill  and 
wrote:  "Giv  me  the  rest  in  blue  hankerchefs 
branded  M."  Then  he  sealed  and  directed  the 
letter  and  called  on  Babe  for  a  drink. 

"How  long  before  I'll  git  them  things?"  he 
inquired,  his  mind  still  heated  with  visions  of 
aprons,  jewelry,  and  blue  handkerchiefs, 
branded  M,— "two  or  three  weeks  ?  Well,  I  '11 
be  down  before  then  —  they  might  come 
sooner.  Where  's  all  the  punchers?" 

"Oh,  they  're  down  in  Geronimo,  gettin' 
drunk.  Round-up  's  over,  now,  and  Crit  laid 
'em  off.  Gittin'  kinder  lonely  around  here." 

"Lonely !"  echoed  Pecos.  "Well,  if  you  call 
this  lonely  you  ought  to  be  out  in  Lost  Dog 
Canon,  where  I  am.  They  's  nothin'  stirrin' 
there  but  the  turkey-buzzards  —  I  'm  gittin' 
the  willies  already,  jest  from  listenin'  to  my- 
self think.  Say,  come  on  out  and  see  me  some- 
time, can't  you?" 

"Nope,"  said  Babe,  "if  you  knew  all  the 

&  [65] 


THE     TEXICAN 

things  that  Grit  expects  me  to  do  in  a  day 
you  'd  wonder  how  I  git  time  to  shave.  But 
say,  what  you  doin*  out  there,  if  it 's  a  fair 
question?" 

"Who  —  me  ?  Oh,  I  've  made  me  a  little 
camp  over  in  that  cave  and  I  'm  catchin'  them 
wild  cattle  that  ooze  along  the  creek."  He 
tried  to  make  it  as  matter-of-fact  as  possible, 
but  Angevine  Thorne  knew  better. 

"Yes,  I  Ve  heard  of  them  wild  cows,"  he 
drawled,  slowly  closing  one  eye,  "the  boys  Ve 
been  driftin'  'em  over  the  Peaks  for  two 
months.  Funny  how  they  was  all  born  with  a 
U  on  the  ribs,  ain't  it?" 

"Sure,  but  they 's  always  some  things  you 
can't  explain  in  a  cow  country,"  observed 
Pecos,  philosophically.  "Did  Crit  tell  you 
anything  about  his  new  iron?  No?  Called 
the  Wine-glass  —  in  the  brand  book  by  this 
time,  I  reckon." 

"Aha!  I  see  —  I  seel"  nodded  Angy. 
"Well,  Old  Good  Eye  wants  to  go  easy  on  this 
moonlightin,' —  we  Ve  got  a  new  sheriff  down 

[66] 


THE     TEXICAN 

here  in  Geronimo  now  —  Boone  Morgan  — 
and  he  was  elected  to  put  the  fear  of  God  into 
the  hearts  of  these  cowmen  and  make  'em 
respect  the  law.  Wy,  Crit  won't  even  pay 
his  taxes,  he  's  that  ornery.  When  the  Ger- 
onimo tax-collector  shows  up  he  says  his  cows 
all  run  over  in  Tonto  County;  and  when  the 
Tonto  man  finally  made  a  long  trip  down  here 
Crit  told  him  his  cows  all  ran  in  Geronimo 
County,  all  but  a  hundred  head  or  so,  and  John 
Upton  had  stole  them.  The  tax-collectors 
have  practically  give  up  tryin'  to  do  anything 
up  here  in  the  mountains  —  the  mileage  of  the 
assessor  and  collector  eats  up  all  the  profits 
to  the  county,  and  it 's  easier  to  turn  these 
cowmen  loose  than  it  is  to  follow  'em  up.  This 
here  Geronimo  man  jumped  all  over  Crit 
last  time  he  was  up  here,  but  Crit  just 
laughed  at  him.  'Well,'  he  says,  'if  you 
don't  like  the  figgers  I  give,  you  better 
go  out  on  the  range  and  count  them  cows 
yourself,  you  're  so  smart.'  And  what  could 
the  poor  man  do  ?  It  'd  cost  more  to  round 

[67] 


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up  Old  Grit's  cattle  than  the  taxes  would 
come  to  in  a  lifetime.  But  you  want  to 
look  out,  boy,"  continued  Angy  earnestly, 
"how  you  monkey  around  with  them  U  cattle 
—  Boone  Morgan  is  an  old-timer  in  these  parts 
and  he  's  likely  to  come  over  the  hill  some  day 
and  catch  you  in  the  act." 

"Old  Crit  says  they  never  was  a  man  sent 
up  in  this  county  yet  for  stealin'  cattle/'  ven- 
tured Pecos,  lamely. 

"Sure  not,"  assented  Angevine  Thorne, 
"but  they  's  been  a  whole  lot  of  'em  killed  for 
it !  I  don't  suppose  he  mentioned  that.  Have 
you  heard  about  this  Tewkesbury- Graham  war 
that 's  goin'  on  up  in  Pleasant  Valley  ?  That 
all  started  over  rustlin'  cattle,  and  they  's  over 
sixty  men  killed  already  and  everybody  hidin' 
out  like  thieves.  A  couple  of  Grit's  bad 
punchers  came  down  through  there  from  the 
Hash-knife  and  they  said  it  was  too  crude  for 
them  —  everybody  fightin'  from  ambush  and 
killin'  men,  women,  and  children.  I  tell  you, 
it 's  got  the  country  stirred  up  tumble  — 

[68] 


THE     TEXICAN 

that 's  how  come  Boone  Morgan  was  elected 
sheriff.  The  people  down  in  Geronimo  figured 
out  if  they  did  n't  stop  this  stealin'  and  rustlin' 
and  alterin'  brands  pretty  soon,  Old  Crit  and 
Upton  would  lock  horns — -or  some  of  these 
other  cowmen  up  here  in  the  mountains  — 
and  the  county  would  go  bankrupt  like  Tonto 
is,  with  sheriff's  fees  and  murder  trials.  No, 
sir,  they  ain't  been  enough  law  up  here  on  the 
Verde  to  intimidate  a  jackrabbit  so  far  —  it 's 
all  down  there  in  Geronimo,  where  they  give 
me  that  life  sentence  for  conspicuous  drunken- 
ness —  but  you  want  to  keep  your  ear  to  the 
ground,  boy,  because  you  're  goin'  to  hear 
something  drap!" 

"What  d  'ye  think  's  goin'  to  happen,  Babe?" 
asked  the  cowboy,  uneasily.  "Old  Crit  can't 
be  scared  very  bad  —  he 's  laid  off  all  his 
punchers." 

"Huh!  you  don't  know  Crit  as  well  as  I  do," 
commented  Babe.  "Don't  you  know  those 
punchers  would  Ve  quit  anyhow,  as  soon  as 
they  got  their  pay?  He  does  that  every  year 

[69] 


THE     TEXICAN 

—  lays  'em  off  and  then  goes  down  to  Geron- 
imo  about  the  time  they  're  broke,  and  half  of 
'em  in  jail,  mebby,  and  bails  'em  out.  He  '11 
have  four  or  five  of  'em  around  here  all  sum- 
mer, workin'  for  nothin'  until  the  fall  round-up 
comes  off.  I  tell  you,  that  man  '11  skin  a  flea 
anytime  for  the  hide  and  taller.  You  want 
to  keep  out  of  debt  to  him  or  he  '11  make  you 
into  a  Mexican  peon,  like  Joe  Garcia  over 
here.  Joe  's  been  his  corral  boss  and  teamster 
for  four  years  now  and  I  guess  they  's  a  hun- 
dred dollars  against  him  on  the  books,  right 
now.  Will  drink  a  little  whiskey  once  in 
a  while,  you  know,  like  all  the  rest  of  us,  and 
the  Senora  keeps  sendin'  over  for  sugar  and 
coffee  and  grub,  and  somehow  or  other,  Joe 
is  always  payin'  for  a  dead  horse.  Would  n't 
be  a  Mexican,  though,"  observed  Babe,  philo- 
sophically, "if  he  was  n't  in  debt  to  the  store. 
A  Mexican  ain't  happy  until  he  's  in  the  hole 
a  hundred  or  so  —  then  he  can  lay  back  and 
sojer  on  his  job  and  the  boss  is  afraid  to  fire 

[70] 


THE     TEXICAN 

'im.  There  's  no  use  of  his  bavin'  anything, 
anyhow  —  his  relatives  would  eat  'im  out  of 
house  and  home  in  a  minute.  There  was  a 
Mexican  down  the  river  here  won  the  grand 
prize  in  a  lottery  and  his  relatives  come  over- 
land from  as  far  as  Sonora  to  help  him  spend 
the  money.  Inside  of  a  month  he  was  drivin' 
a  wood-wagon  again  in  order  to  git  up  a  little 
grub.  He  was  a  big  man  while  it  lasted  — 
open  house  day  and  night,  fiestas  and  I  ailes 
and  a  string  band  to  accompany  him  whenever 
he  went  —  but  when  it  was  all  over  old  Juan 
could  n't  buy  a  pint  of  whiskey  on  credit  if 
he  was  snake-bit.  They  're  a  great  people,  for 


sure." 


"That 's  right,"  assented  Pecos,  absently, 
"but  say,  I  reckon  I  '11  be  goin'."  The  social 
qualities  of  the  Spanish-Americans  did  not  in- 
terest him  just  then  —  he  was  thinking  about 
Boone  Morgan.  "Gimme  a  dollar's  worth  of 
smoking  tobacco  and  a  box  of  forty-fives  and 
I'll  hit  the  road." 

[71] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"There  's  one  thing  more  you  forgot,"  sug- 
gested Angevine  Thorne,  as  he  wrapped  up 
the  purchases. 

"What  —  Marcelina?"  ventured  Pecos, 
faintly. 

"Naw  —  your  mail!"  cried  Angy,  scornfully, 
and  dipping  down  into  a  cracker  box  he 
brought  out  a  paper  on  the  yellow  wrapper  of 
which  was  printed  "Pecos  Dalhart,  Verde 
Crossing,  Ariz." 

Cfl  never  subscribed  for  no  paper!"  pro- 
tested Pecos,  turning  it  over  suspiciously. 
"Here  —  I  don't  want  it." 

"Ump-umm,"  grunted  Angy,  smiling  mys- 
teriously, "take  it  along.  All  the  boys  git 
one.  You  can  read  it  out  in  camp.  Well,  if 
you  're  goin'  to  be  bull-headed  about  it  I  '11 
tell  you.  Crit  subscribed  for  it  for  every  man 
in  Verde  —  only  cost  two-bits  a  year.  Got  to 
build  up  this  mail  route  somehow,  you  know. 
It 's  called  the  Voice  of  Reason  and  it 's  against 
the  capitalistic  classes." 

"The  which?"  inquired  Pecos,  patiently. 
[72] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Aw,  against  rich  fellers  —  these  sharks  like 
Old  Crit  that 's  crushin'  the  life  outer  the  com- 
mon people.  That 's  the  paper  I  was  showin' 
you  —  where  they  was  advertisin'  diamonds  for 
a  dollar  forty-eight  a  piece." 

"Oh,"  said  Pecos,  thrusting  it  into  his  chaps, 
"why  didn't  you  say  so  before?  Sure,  I'll 
read  it!" 


[73] 


CHAPTER  VI 


"THE  VOICE  OF  REASON" 


THE  fierce  heat  of  summer  fell  suddenly 
upon  Lost  Dog  Canon  and  all  the 
Yerde  country  —  the  prolonged  heat  which 
hatches  flies  by  the  million  and  puts  an  end  to 
ear-marking  and  branding.  Until  the  cool 
weather  of  October  laid  them  and  made  it  pos- 
sible to  heal  a  wound  there  was  nothing  for 
Pecos  to  do  but  doctor  a  few  sore  ears  and  read 
the  Voice  of  Reason.  Although  he  had  spent 
most  of  his  life  in  the  saddle  the  school-teacher 
back  on  the  Pecos  had  managed  to  corral  him 
long  enough  to  beat  the  three  R's  into  him  and, 
being  still  young,  he  had  not  yet  had  time 
to  forget  them.  Only  twenty  summers  had 
passed  over  his  head,  so  far,  and  he  was  a  man 
only  in  stature  and  the  hard  experience  of  his 
craft.  He  was  a  good  Texan  —  born  a  Dem- 
ocrat and  taught  to  love  whiskey  and  hate 


THE     TEXICAN 

Mexicans  —  but  so  far  his  mind  was  guiltless 
of  social  theory.  That  there  was  something 
in  the  world  that  kept  a  poor  man  down  he 
knew,  vaguely;  but  never,  until  the  Voice  of 
Reason  brought  it  to  his  attention,  had  he 
heard  of  the  conspiracy  of  wealth  or  the  crime 
of  government.  Not  until,  sprawling  at  the 
door  of  his  cave,  he  mumbled  over  the  full- 
mouthed  invective  of  that  periodical  had  he 
realized  what  a  poor,  puny  creature  a  wage- 
slave  really  was,  and  when  he  read  of  the 
legalized  robbery  which  went  on  under  the 
name  of  law  his  young  blood  boiled  in  revolt. 
The  suppression  of  strikes  by  Pinkertons,  the 
calling  out  of  the  State  Militia  to  shoot 
down  citizens,  the  blacklisting  of  miners,  and 
the  general  oppression  of  workingmen  was  all 
far  away  and  academic  to  him — the  thing  that 
gripped  and  held  him  was  an  article  on  the 
fee  system,  under  which  officers  of  the  law  ar- 
rest all  transient  citizens  who  are  unfortunate 
enough  to  be  poor,  and  judges  condemn  them 
in  order  to  gain  a  fee. 

[75] 


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"Think,  Slave,  Think!"  it  began.  "You 
may  be  the  next  innocent  man  to  be  thrown 
into  some  vile  and  vermin-infested  county- jail 
to  swell  the  income  of  the  bloated  minions  who 
fatten  upon  the  misery  of  the  poor!" 

Pecos  had  no  difficulty  in  thinking.  Like 
many  another  man  of  wandering  habits 
he  had  already  tasted  the  bitterness  of  "ten 
dollars  or  ten  days."  The  hyenas  of  the  law 
had  gathered  him  in  while  he  was  innocently 
walking  down  the  railroad  track  and  a  low- 
browed justice  of  the  peace  without  asking  any 
useless  questions  had  sentenced  him  to  jail  for 
vagrancy.  Ten  days  of  brooding  and  hard 
fare  had  not  sweetened  his  disposition  any  and 
he  had  stepped  free  with  the  firm  determina- 
tion to  wreak  a  notable  revenge,  but  as  the 
sheriff  thoughtfully  kept  his  six-shooter  Pecos 
had  been  compelled  to  postpone  that  exposition 
of  popular  justice.  Nevertheless  the  details 
of  his  wrongs  were  still  fresh  in  his  mind,  and 
when  he  learned  from  the  Voice  of  Reason 
that  the  constable  and  judge  had  made  him 

[76] 


THE    TEXICAN 

all  that  trouble  for  an  aggregate  fee  of  six 
dollars  Pecos  was  ready  to  oppose  all  law,  in 
whatsoever  form  it  might  appear,  with  sum- 
mary violence.  And  as  for  the  capitalistic 
classes  —  well,  Pecos  determined  to  collect  his 
last  month's  pay  from  Old  Crit  if  he  had  to 
take  it  out  of  his  hide. 

When  next  he  rode  into  Verde  Crossing  the 
hang-dog  look  which  had  possessed  Pecos  Dai- 
hart  since  he  turned  rustler  was  displaced  by  a 
purposeful  frown.  He  rolled  truculently  in 
the  saddle  as  he  came  down  the  middle  of  the 
road,  and  wasted  no  time  with  preliminaries. 

"Where's  that  blankety-blank  Old  Crit?" 
he  demanded,  racking  into  the  store  with  his 
hand  on  his  hip. 

"Gone  down  to  Geronimo  to  git  the  mail/' 
replied  Babe,  promptly. 

"Well,  you  tell  him  I  want  my  pay!" 
thundered  Pecos,  pacing  up  and  down. 

"He  '11  be  back  to-night,  better  stay  and 
tell  him  yourself,"  suggested  Babe,  mildly. 

"I  '11  do  that,"  responded  Pecos,  nodding 
[77] 


THE     TEXICAN 

ominously.  "And  more  'n  that  —  I  '11  collect 
it.  What'sdoin'?" 

"Oh,  nothin',"  replied  Babe.  "There  was  a 
deputy  assessor  up  here  the  other  day  and  he 
left  this  blank  for  you  to  fill  out.  It  gives  the 
number  of  your  cattle." 

"Well,  you  tell  that  deputy  to  go  to  hell, 
will  you?" 

"Nope,"  said  Babe,  "he  might  take  me  with 
him.  It  happens  he  's  a  deputy  sheriff,  too!" 

"Deputy, —  huh!"  grumbled  Pecos,  mo- 
rosely. "They  all  look  the  same  to  me.  Did 
Crit  fill  out  his  blank?" 

"Sure  did.  Reported  a  hundred  head  of 
Wine-glasses.  Now  what  d  'ye  think  of 
that?" 

Pecos  paused  and  meditated  on  the  matter 
for  an  instant.  It  was  doubtful  if  Crittenden 
could  gather  more  than  a  hundred  head  of 
Wine-glasses,  all  told.  Some  of  them  had 
drifted  back  to  their  old  range  and  the  rest 
were  scattered  in  a  rough  country.  "Looks 
like  that  deputy  threw  a  scare  into  him,"  he 

[78] 


THE     TEXICAN 

observed,  dubiously.  "What  did  he  say  about 
my  cattle?" 

"Well,  he  said  you  'd  registered  a  new  brand 
and  now  it  was  up  to  you  to  show  that  you  had 
some  cattle.  If  you  Ve  got  'em  you  ought  to 
pay  taxes  on  'em  and  if  you  have  n't  got  any 
you  got  no  business  with  an  iron  that  will  burn 
over  Upton's  U." 

"Oh,  that 's  the  racket,  is  it?  Well,  you  tell 
that  deputy  that  I  Ve  got  cattle  in  that  brand 
and  I  Ve  got  a  bill  of  sale  for  'em,  all  regular, 
but  I  Ve  yet  to  see  the  deputy  sheriff  that  can 
collect  taxes  off  of  me.  D'  ye  think  I  'm  goin' 
to  chip  in  to  help  pay  the  salary  of  a  man  that 
makes  a  business  of  rollin'  drunks  and  throwin' 
honest  workingmen  into  the  hoosegatho  when 
he  's  in  town?  Ump-um  —  guess  again!" 

He  motioned  for  a  drink  and  Babe  regarded 
him  curiously  as  he  set  out  the  bottle. 

"You  been  readin'  the  Voice,,  I  reckon,"  he 
said,  absent-mindedly  pouring  out  a  drink  for 
himself.  "Well,  say,  did  you  read  that  article 
on  the  fee  system?  It's  all  true,  Pardner, 

[79] 


THE     TEXICAN 

every  word  of  it,  and  more !  I  'm  a  man  of 
good  family  and  education  —  I  was  brought 
up  right  and  my  folks  are  respectable  people 
—  and  yet  every  time  I  go  to  Geronimo  they 
throw  me  into  jail.  Two-twenty-five,  that 's 
what  they  do  it  for  —  and  there  I  have  to  lay, 
half  the  time  with  some  yegg  or  lousy  gang 
of  hobos,  until  they  git  ready  to  turn  me  loose. 
And  they  call  that  justice!  Pecos,  I  'm  going 
back  to  Geronimo  —  I  'm  going  to  stand  on 
the  corner,  just  the  way  I  used  to  when  I  was 
drunk,  and  tell  the  people  it's  all  wrong! 
You  're  a  good  man,  Pecos  —  Cumrad  —  will 
you  go  with  me?" 

Pecos  stood  and  looked  at  him,  wondering. 
"Comrade"  sounded  good  to  him;  it  was  the 
word  they  used  in  the  Voice  of  Reason  — 
"Comrade  Jones  has  just  sent  us  in  four  more 
subscriptions.  That 's  what  throws  a  crook 
into  the  tail  of  monopoly.  Bully  for  you, 
Comrade !"  But  with  all  his  fervor  he  did  not 
fail  to  notice  the  droop  to  Angy's  eyes,  the 
flush  on  his  cheeks,  and  the  slack  tremulous- 

[80] 


THE    TEXICAN 

ness  of  his  lips  —  in  spite  of  his  solemn  resolu- 
tions Angy  had  undoubtedly  given  way  to  the 
Demon  Drink. 

"Nope,"  he  said,  "I  like  you,  Angy,  but 
they  'd  throw  us  both  in.  You  'd  better  stay 
up  here  and  watch  me  put  it  on  Crit.  'Don't 
rope  a  bigger  bull  than  you  can  throw/  is  my 
motto,  and  Old  Crit  is  jest  my  size.  I  'm 
goin'  to  comb  his  hair  with  a  six-shooter  or 
I  '11  have  my  money  —  and  then  if  that  dog- 
robber  of  a  deputy  sheriff  shows  up  I  '11  — 
well,  he  'd  better  not  crowd  me,  that 's  all. 
Here  's  to  the  revolution  —  will  you  drink  it, 
old  Red-eye?" 

Angy  drank  it,  and  another  to  keep  it 
company. 

"Pecos,"  he  said,  his  voice  tremulous  with 
emotion,  "when  I  think  how  my  life  has  been 
ruined  by  these  hirelings  of  the  law,  when  I 
think  of  the  precious  days  I  have  wasted  in 
the  confinement  of  the  Geronimo  jail,  I  could 
rise  up  and  destroy  them,  these  fiends  in  hu- 
man form  and  their  accursed  jails;  I  could 

6  [81] 


THE     TEXICAN 

wreck  every  prison  in  the  land  and  proclaim 
liberty  from  the  street-corners  —  whoop!" 
He  waved  one  hand  above  his  head,  laughed, 
and  leapt  to  a  seat  upon  the  bar.  "But  don't 
you  imagine  f ' r  a  moment,  my  friend,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  the  impressive  gravity  of  an 
orator,  "that  they  have  escaped  unscathed. 
It  was  not  until  I  had  read  that  wonderful 
champion  of  the  common  people,  the  Voice  of 
Reason,  that  I  realized  the  enormity  of  this 
conspiracy  which  has  reduced  me  to  my  pres- 
ent condition,  but  from  my  first  incarceration 
in  the  Geronimo  jail  I  have  been  a  Thorne  in 
their  side,  as  the  Geronimo  Blade  well  said. 
I  remember  as  if  it  were  yesterday  the  time 
when  they  erected  their  first  prison,  over 
twenty  years  ago,  on  account  of  losing  some 
hoss-thieves.  It  was  a  new  structure,  strongly 
built  of  adobe  bricks,  and  in  a  spirit  of  jest  the 
town  marshal  arrested  me  and  locked  me  up 
to  see  if  it  was  tight.  That  night  when  all 
was  still  I  wrenched  one  of  the  iron  bars  loose 
and  dug  my  way  to  freedom!  But  what  is 

[82] 


THE    TEXICAN 

freedom  to  revenge?  After  I  had  escaped  I 
packed  wood  in  through  the  same  hole,  piled 
it  up  against  the  door,  and  set  the  dam'  hell- 
hole afire!" 

He  paused  and  gazed  upon  Pecos  with 
drunken  triumph.  "That 's  the  kind  of  an 
Jiombre  I  am,"  he  said.  "But  what  is  one 
determined  man  against  a  thousand?  When 
the  citizens  of  Geronimo  beheld  their  new 
calaboose  ruined  and  in  flames  they  went  over 
the  country  with  a  fine-tooth  comb  and  never 
let  up  until  they  had  brought  me  back  and 
shackled  me  to  the  old  cottonwood  log  down 
by  the  canal  —  the  one  they  had  always  used 
before  they  lost  the  hoss-thieves.  That  was 
the  only  jail  they  had  left,  now  that  the  cala- 
boose was  burned.  In  vain  I  pleaded  with 
them  for  just  one  drink  —  they  were  inex- 
orable, the  cowardly  curs,  and  there  they  left 
me,  chained  like  a  beast,  while  they  went  up 
town  and  swilled  whiskey  until  far  into  the 
night.  As  the  first  faint  light  of  morning 
shot  across  the  desert  I  awoke  with  a  terrible 

[83] 


THE     TEXICAN 

thirst.  My  suffering  was  awful.  I  filled  my 
mouth  with  the  vile  ditch-water  and  spat  it 
out  again,  unsatisfied  —  I  shook  my  chains 
and  howled  for  mercy.  But  what  mercy  could 
one  expect  from  such  a  pack  of  curs?  I  tested 
every  link  in  my  chain,  and  the  bolt  that  passed 
through  the  log  —  then,  with  the  strength  of 
desperation  I  laid  hold  upon  that  enormous 
tree-trunk  and  rolled  it  into  the  water!  Yes, 
sir,  I  rolled  the  old  jail-log  into  the  canal  and 
jumped  straddle  of  it  like  a  conqueror,  and 
whatever  happened  after  that  I  knew  I  had 
the  laugh  on  old  Hickey,  the  Town  Marshal, 
unless  some  one  saw  me  sailing  by.  But  luck 
was  with  me,  boy;  I  floated  that  big  log  clean 
through  town  and  down  to  Old  Manuel's  road- 
house —  a  Mexican  deadfall  out  on  the  edge 
of  the  desert  —  and  swapped  it  for  two  drinks 
of  mescal  that  would  simply  make  you  scream! 
By  Joe,  that  liquor  tasted  good  —  have  one 
with  me  now!" 

They  drank  once  more,  still  pledging  the 
revolution,  and  then  Angy  went  ahead  on  his 


THE     TEXICAN 

talking  jag.  "Maybe  you  've  heard  of  this 
Baron  Mun-chawson,  the  German  character 
that  was  such  a  dam'  liar  and  jail-breaker  the 
king  made  a  prison  to  order  and  walled  him 
in?  Well,  sir,  Mun-chawson  worked  seven 
years  with  a  single  nail  on  that  prison  and  dug 
out  in  spite  of  hell.  But  human  nature  's  the 
same,  wherever  you  go* — always  stern  and 
pitiless.  When  those  Geronimo  citizens  found 
out  that  old  Angy  had  stole  their  cottonwood 
log  and  traded  it  to  a  wood-chopper  for  the 
drinks,  they  went  ahead  and  built  a  double- 
decked,  steel-celled  county  jail  and  sentenced 
me  to  it  for  life!  Conspicuous  drunkenness 
was  the  charge  —  and  grand  larceny  of  a  jail 
—  but  answer  me,  my  friend,  is  this  a  free 
country  or  is  the  spirit  that  animated  our  fore- 
fathers dead?  Is  the  spirit  of  Patrick  Henry 
when  he  cried,  'Give  me  liberty  or  give  me 
death,'  buried  in  the  oblivion  of  the  past?  Tell 
me  that,  now!" 

"Don't   know,"    responded   Pecos,   lightly, 
"too  deep  a  question  for  me  —  but  say,  gimme 

[85] 


THE     TEXICAN 

one  more  drink  and  then  I  'm  goin'  down  the 
road  to  collect  my  pay  from  Crit.  I  'm  a  man 
of  action  —  that 's  where  I  shine  —  I  refer  all 
such  matters  to  Judge  Colt."  He  slapped  his 
gun  affectionately  and  clanked  resolutely  out 
of  the  door.  Half  a  mile  down  the  river  he 
sighted  his  quarry  and  rode  in  on  him  warily. 
*  Old  Crit  was  alone,  driving  a  discouraged  team 
of  Mexican  horses,  and  as  the  bouquet  of 
Pecos's  breath  drifted  in  to  him  over  the  front 
wheel  the  Boss  of  Verde  Crossing  regretted 
for  once  the  fiery  quality  of  his  whiskey. 

"I  come  down  to  collect  my  pay,"  observed 
Pecos,  plucking  nervously  at  his  gun. 

"Well,  you  don't  collect  a  cent  off  of  me," 
replied  Crit,  defiantly,  "a  man  that  will  steal 
the  way  you  did!  Whenever  you  git  ready 
to  leave  this  country  I  might  give  you  a  hun- 
dred or  so  for  your  brand,  but  you  better 
hurry  up.  There  was  a  deputy  sheriff  up 
here  the  other  day,  lookin'  for  you!" 

"Yes,  I  heard  about  it,"  sneered  Pecos. 
[86] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"I  reckon  he  was  lookin'  for  evidence  about 
this  here  Wine-glass  iron." 

A  smothered  curse  escaped  the  lips  of  Isaac 
Crittenden,  but,  being  old  at  the  game,  he  un- 
derstood. There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
pay  up  —  and  wait. 

"Well,  what  guarantee  do  I  git  that  you 
don't  give  the  whole  snap  away  anyhow?"  he 
demanded,  fiercely.  "What 's  the  use  of  me 
payin'  you  anything  —  I  might  as  well  keep 
it  to  hire  a  lawyer." 

"As  long  as  you  pay  me  what  you  owe  me," 
said  Pecos,  slowly,  "and  treat  me  square," 
he  added,  "I  keep  my  mouth  shut.  But  the 
minute  you  git  foxy  or  try  some  ranikaboo 
play  like  sayin'  the  deputy  was  after  me  — 
look  out!  Now  they  was  a  matter  of  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  dollars  between  us  —  do  I 
git  it  or  don't  I?" 

"You  git  it,"  grumbled  Crittenden,  re- 
luctantly. "But  say,  I  want  you  to  keep  away 
from  Verde  Crossing.  Some  of  them  Wine- 

[87] 


THE     TEXICAN 

glass  cows  have  drifted  back  onto  the  upper 
range  and  John  Upton  has  made  a  roar. 
More  than  that,  Boone  Morgan  has  undertook 
to  collect  our  taxes  up  here  and  if  that  deputy 
of  his  ever  gits  hold  of  you  he  's  goin'  to  ask 
some  mighty  p'inted  questions.  So  you  better 
stay  away,  see?" 

He  counted  out  the  money  and  held  it  in  his 
hand,  waiting  for  consent,  but  Pecos  only 
laughed. 

"Life's  too  short  to  be  hidin'  out  from  a 
deputy,"  he  answered,  shortly.  "So  gimme 
that  money  and  1 11  be  on  my  way."  He 
leaned  over  and  plucked  the  bills  from  Grit's 
hand;  then,  spurring  back  toward  the  Cross- 
ing he  left  Old  Crit,  speechless  with  rage,  to 
follow  in  his  dust. 

A  loud  war-whoop  from  the  store  and  the 
high-voiced  ranting  of  Babe  made  it  plain  to 
Crit  that  there  was  no  use  going  there  — 
Angy  was  launched  on  one  of  his  periodicals 
and  Pecos  was  keeping  him  company  — 
which  being  the  case  there  was  nothing  for  it 

[88] 


THE     TEXICAN 

but  to  let  them  take  the  town.  The  grizzled 
Boss  of  Verde  stood  by  the  corral  for  a  minute, 
listening  to  the  riot  and  studying  on  where  to 
put  in  his  time;  then  a  slow  smile  crept  over 
his  hardened  visage  and  he  fixed  his  sinister 
eye  on  the  adobe  of  Joe  Garcia.  All  was  fair, 
with  him,  in  love  or  war,  and  Marcelina  was 
growing  up  to  be  a  woman. 

"Joe,"  he  said,  turning  upon  his  corral  boss, 
"you  tell  your  wife  I  '11  be  over  there  in  a 
minute  for  supper  —  and  say,  I  want  you  to 
stay  in  the  store  to-night ;  them  crazy  fools  will 
set  the  house  afire." 

"Stawano"  mumbled  Jose,  but  as  he  turned 
away  there  was  an  angry  glint  in  his  downcast 
eye  and  he  cursed  with  every  breath.  It  is  not 
always  pleasant,  even  to  a  Mexican,  to  be 
in  debt  to  the  Boss. 


[89] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   REVOLUTION 

THE  coyotes  who  from  their  seven  hills 
along  the  Verde  were  accustomed  to 
make  Rome  howl  found  themselves  outclassed 
and  left  to  a  thinking  part  on  the  night  that 
Pecos  Dalhart  and  Angevine  Thorne  cele- 
brated the  dawn  of  Reason.  The  French 
Revolution  being  on  a  larger  scale,  and,  above 
all,  successful,  has  come  down  in  history  as  a 
great  social  movement;  all  that  can  be  said  of 
the  revolution  at  Verde  Crossing  is  packed 
away  in  those  sad  words :  it  failed.  It  started, 
like  most  revolutions,  with  a  careless  word,  hot 
from  the  vitriolic  pen  of  some  space-writer  gone 
mad,  and  ended  in  that  amiable  disorder  which, 
for  lack  of  a  better  word,  we  call  anarchy. 
Whiskey  was  at  the  bottom  of  it,  of  course, 
and  it  meant  no  more  than  a  tale  told  by  an 

[90] 


THE     TEXICAN 

idiot,  "full  of  sound  and  fury,  signifying  noth- 
ing." At  the  same  time,  it  managed  by  de- 
grees to  engross  the  entire  attention  of  Verde 
Crossing  and  after  the  fall  of  the  Bastile, 
as  symbolized  by  the  cracking  of  a  bottle,  it 
left  Pecos  and  Babe  more  convinced  than  ever 
that  the  world  was  arrayed  against  them. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  according 
to  orders,  Jose  Garcia  watched  them  furtively 
through  the  open  door,  returning  at  intervals, 
however,  to  peer  through  the  window  of  his 
own  home.  At  each  visit  it  seemed  to  him  that 
Angy  was  getting  drunker  and  the  Boss  more 
shameless  in  his  attentions  to  Marcelina.  At 
last,  when  he  could  stand  the  strain  no  longer, 
he  threw  in  with  the  merry  roisterers,  leaving 
it  to  the  Senora  to  protect  the  dignity  of  their 
home.  A  drink  or  two  mellowed  him  to  their 
propaganda  —  at  the  mention  of  Crit  he  burst 
into  a  torrent  of  curses  and  as  the  night  wore 
on  he  declared  for  the  revolution,  looking  for 
his  immediate  revenge  in  drinking  up  all  the 
Boss's  whiskey.  In  the  end  their  revelry  rose 

[91] 


THE     TEXICAN 

to  such  a  height  that  Crittenden  was  drawn 
away  from  his  rough  wooing  and  finally,  un- 
der the  pretence  of  delivering  the  United 
States  mail,  he  walked  boldly  in  upon  them, 
determined  to  protect  his  property  at  any  risk. 
The  penalty  for  interfering  with  the  United 
States  mail,  as  everybody  who  has  ever  read 
the  card  on  a  drop-box  knows,  is  a  fine  of 
$1,000,  or  imprisonment,  or  both.  In  defence 
of  that  precious  packet  Crittenden  could  have 
killed  all  three  of  them  and  stood  justified  be- 
fore the  law,  but  although  he  had  a  reputation 
as  a  bad  man  to  crowd  into  a  corner,  Old  Crit 
was  not  of  a  sanguinary  disposition.  No  man 
could  hold  down  a  bunch  of  gun-men  of  the 
kind  that  he  employed  in  his  predatory  round- 
ups and  not  have  a  little  iron  in  his  blood,  but 
the  Boss  of  Verde  Crossing  had  seen  all  too 
well  in  his  variegated  career  the  evils  which 
cluster  like  flies  about  an  act  of  violence,  and  he 
was  always  for  peace  —  peace  and  his  price. 

"Here;  here,  here,"  he  expostulated,  as  he 
found  Angy  in  the  act  of  drinking  half  a  pint 

[92] 


THE     TEXICAN 

of  whiskey  by  measure,  "you  boys  are  hittin'  it 
pretty  high,  ain't  ye?" 

"The  roof  's  the  limit,"  replied  Babe,  face- 
tiously. "As  the  Champeen  Booze-fighter  of 
Arizona  I  am  engaged  in  demonstratin'  to  all 
beholders  my  claim  to  that  illustrious  title. 
Half  a  pint  of  whiskey  —  enough  to  kill  an 
Injun  or  pickle  a  Gila -monster  —  and  all 
tossed  off  at  a  single  bout,  like  the  nectar  of 
the  gods.  Here  's  to  the  revolution,  and  to 
hell  with  the  oppressors  of  the  poor!" 

"That 's  right,"  chimed  in  Pecos,  elevating 
his  glass  and  peering  savagely  over  its  rim  at 
the  Boss,  "we  done  declared  a  feud  against  the 
capitulistic  classes  and  the  monneypullistic 
tendencies  of  the  times.  Your  game  's  played 
out,  Old  Man;  the  common  people  have  riz  in 
their  might  and  took  the  town!  Now  you  go 
away  back  in  the  corner,  d'  ye  understand,  and 
sit  down  —  and  don't  let  me  hear  a  word  out 
of  you  or  I  '11  beat  the  fear  o'  God  into  you 
with  this!"  He  hauled  out  his  heavy  six- 
shooter  and  made  the  sinister  motions  of  strik- 

[93] 


THE     TEXICAN 

ing  a  man  over  the  head  with  it,  but  Crit  chose 
to  ignore  the  threat. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  feigning  an  indulgent 
smile,  "you  boys  seem  to  be  enjoyin'  your- 
selves, so  1 11  jest  deliver  this  United  States 
mail  as  the  law  requires  and  leave  you  to  your- 
selves." He  stepped  in  behind  the  bar, 
chucked  a  couple  of  demijohns  of  whiskey  into 
the  corner  where  they  might  be  overlooked,  and 
threw  the  mail  pouch  on  the  counter. 

"Better  come  up  and  git  your  mail,  boys," 
he  observed,  dumping  the  contents  out  for  a 
lure.  "Hey,  here  's  a  package  for  you,  Mr. 
Dalhart  —  something  pretty  choice,  I  'spect. 
Nothin'  for  you,  Joe,"  he  scowled,  as  his  faith- 
less retainer  lurched  up  to  claim  his  share. 
"Here  's  your  paper,  Babe.  Letter  for  you, 
Mr.  Dalhart,"  he  continued,  flipping  a  large, 
official  envelope  across  the  bar,  "you  're  de- 
velopin'  quite  a  correspondence!"  He  ducked 
down  behind  the  counter,  grinning  at  his  strat- 
agem, and  while  Pecos  and  Babe  were  exam- 
ining their  mail  he  managed  to  jerk  the  money 

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drawer  open  and  slip  the  loose  change  into  his 
pockets. 

"Well,  we  '11  be  goin'  home  now,  Joe,"  he 
said,  taking  the  corral  boss  briskly  by  the  arm. 
"Come  on,  hombre,  you  ain't  got  no  mail!" 
Under  ordinary  circumstances  Jose  would  have 
followed  peaceably,  thus  reducing  the  revolu- 
tionary forces  to  a  minimum,  but  the  covert  in- 
sult to  his  daughter,  magnified  by  drink,  had 
fired  his  Latin  blood. 

"No,  Senor,"  he  replied,  fixing  his  glittering 
eyes  upon  the  hateful  boss.  ff Yo  no  go!  Car- 
ramba,  que  malo  Tiombre!  You  dam'  coward, 
Greet  —  you  scare  my  wife  —  you  scare  — " 

"Shut  up!"  hissed  Grit,  hastily  cuffing  him 
over  the  head.  "Shut  your  mouth  or  I  '11  — " 

"Diablo!"  shrieked  the  Mexican,  striking 
back  blindly.  "I  keel  you !  You  have  to  leave 
mi  nina  alone!" 

"What's  that?"  yelled  Angevine  Thorne, 
leaping  with  drunken  impetuosity  into  the  fray, 
"hev  you  been  — " 

"Leave  him  to  me!"  shouted  Pecos,  wading 
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recklessly  into  the  scrimmage.  "I  '11  fix  the 
blankety-blank,  whatever  he  's  gone  and  done ! 
Throw  him  loose,  boys ;  I  '11  take  the  one-eyed 
—  hump-backed  —  dog-robbin  —  dastard33  — 
he  accompanied  each  epithet  with  a  blow  — 
"and  tie  'im  into  a  bow  knot!"  He  grabbed 
Old  Crit  out  of  the  melee  and  held  him  against 
the  wall  with  a  hand  of  iron.  "What  do  you 
mean  by  slappin'  my  friend  and  cumrad?"  he 
thundered,  making  as  if  to  annihilate  him  with 
a  blow.  "I  want  you  to  understand,  Old 
Cock  Eye,  that  Mr.  Garcia  is  my  friend  —  he 
comes  from  a  fine  old  Spanish  family,  away 
down  in  Sonory,  and  his  rights  must  be  re- 
spected !  Ain't  that  so,  Angy  ?" 

"From  the  pure,  Castilian  blood,"  declaimed 
Angy,  waving  his  hand  largely,  "a  gentleman 
to  whom  I  take  off  my  hat  —  his  estimable  wife 
and  family  — " 

"Now  here,  boys,"  broke  in  Crittenden,  tak- 
ing his  cue  instantly,  "this  joke  has  gone  far 
enough.  Mr.  Garcia's  wife  asked  me  to  bring 
him  home  —  you  see  what  his  condition  is- 

[96] 


THE    TEXICAN 

and  I  was  tryin'  to  do  my  best.  Now  jest  take 
your  hand  off  of  me,  Mr.  Dalhart  —  yes, 
thanks  —  and  Angy,  you  see  if  you  can't  git 
'im  to  go  home.  A  man  of  family,  you  know," 
he  went  on,  craftily  enlisting  their  sympathies, 
"ought  to  — " 

"Sure  thing!"  responded  Angevine  Thorne, 
lovingly  twining  his  arm  around  his  Spanish- 
American  comrade.  "Grab  a  root  there, 
Pecos,  and  we  '11  take  'im  home  in  style!" 

"Wait  till  I  git  my  package!"  cried  Pecos, 
suddenly  breaking  his  hold,  and  he  turned 
around  just  in  time  to  see  Grit  skipping  out  the 
back  door. 

"Well,  run  then,  you  dastard!"  he  apostro- 
phized, waving  one  hand  as  he  tenderly  gath- 
ered up  his  mail-order  dry  goods.    "I  can't  stop 
to  take  after  ye  now.     This  here  package  is 
f 'r  my  little   Senorita,   Marcelina,   and   I  'm 
goin'  to  present  it  like  a  gentleman  and  ast  her 
for  a  kiss.     Hey,  Angy,"  he  called,  as  he  re- 
engaged himself  with  Jose,  "how  do  you  say 
'kiss'  in  Spanish?     Aw,  shut  up,  I  don't  believe 
7  [97] 


THE     TEXICAN 

ye!  Stan'  up  here,  Joe  —  well,  it  don't  sound 
good,  that 's  all  —  I  'm  goin'  to  ast  her  in 
U.  S.,  and  take  a  chance!" 

The  procession  lurched  drunkenly  up  the 
road  and  like  most  such  was  not  received  with 
the  cordiality  which  had  been  anticipated. 
The  Senora  Garcia  was  already  furious  at  Old 
Crit  and  when  Pecos  Dalhart,  after  delivering 
her  recreant  husband,  undertook  to  present  the 
dainty  aprons  and  the  blue  handkerchiefs, 
marked  M,  which  he  had  ordered  specially  for 
her  daughter,  she  burst  into  a  torrent  of  Span- 
ish and  hurled  them  at  his  head.  "Muy  malo" 
"borracho"  and  "vaya  se"  were  a  few  of  the 
evil  words  which  followed  them  and  by  the 
gestures  alone  Pecos  knew  that  he  had  been 
called  a  bad  man  and  a  drunkard  and  told  in 
two  words  to  go.  He  went,  and  with  him 
Angy,  ever  ready  to  initiate  new  orgies  and 
help  drown  his  sorrows  in  the  flowing  cup. 
The  noise  of  their  bacchanalia  rose  higher  and 
higher;  pistol-shots  rang  out  as  Pecos  shot  off 
the  necks  of  bottles  which  personified  for  the 

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moment  his  hated  rival;  and  to  Crit,  lingering 
outside  the  back  door,  it  seemed  as  if  their 
howling  and  ranting  would  never  cease.  It 
was  no  new  experience  for  him  to  break  in  on 
one  of  Angy's  jags,  but  things  were  coming  too 
high  and  fast  with  Pecos  Dalhart  present,  and 
he  decided  to  wait  for  his  revenge  until  they 
were  both  thoroughly  paralyzed. 

"But  what  is  this  'cumrad'  talk  and  them 
yells  for  the  revolution?"  he  soliloquized,  as 
Angy  and  Pecos  returned  to  their  religion. 
"Is  it  a  G.  A.  R.  reunion  or  has  Joe  worked 
in  a  Mexican  revolution  on  us?  Yes,  holler, 
you  crazy  fools ;  it  '11  be  Old  Grit's  turn,  when 
you  come  to  pay  the  bills." 

The  first  gray  light  of  dawn  was  striking 
through  the  door  when  Crittenden  tip-toed 
cautiously  into  the  store  and  gazed  about  at  the 
wreckage  and  the  sprawling  hulks  of  the  rev- 
ellers. Pecos  lay  on  his  face  with  his  huge  sil- 
ver mounted  spurs  tangled  in  the  potato  sack 
that  had  thrown  him;  and  Babe,  his  round 
moon-face  and  bald  crown  still  red  from  his 

[99] 


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unrestrained  potations,  was  draped  along  the 
bar  like  a  shop  kitten.  Old  Crit  shook  him 
roughly  and,  receiving  no  response,  turned  his 
attention  to  Pecos  Dalhart.  His  first  care  was 
to  snap  the  cartridges  out  of  his  six-shooter  and 
jamb  the  action  with  a  generous  handful  of 
dirt;  then  he  felt  his  pockets  over  carefully, 
looking  for  his  roll,  for  Pecos  had  undoubtedly 
consumed  a  great  deal  of  liquor  and  ought  not 
to  be  deprived  of  the  cowboy's  privilege  of 
waking  up  broke.  But  as  luck  would  have  it 
he  was  lying  upon  his  treasure  and  could  not 
pay  his  reckoning.  The  only  article  of  interest 
which  the  search  produced  was  a  grimy  section 
of  a  newspaper,  stored  away  in  his  vest  pocket, 
and  Crit  seized  upon  it  eagerly.  It  was  a  not 
uncommon  failing  of  Texas  bad  men,  as  he 
knew  them,  to  carry  newspaper  accounts  of 
their  past  misdeeds  upon  their  persons  and  he 
unfolded  the  sheet  with  the  full  expectation  of 
finding  a  sheriff's  offer  of  reward. 

"It 's  a  crime  to  be  Poor!  !  !"  was  the  head- 
ing, "And  the  penalty  is  hard  labor  for  life!" 

[100] 


THE     TEXICAN 

it  added,  briefly.  There  is  something  in  that, 
too;  but  philosophy  did  not  appeal  to  Critten- 
den  at  the  moment  —  he  was  looking  for  Pecos 
Dalhart's  name  and  the  record  of  his  crime. 
"The  grinding  tyranny  of  the  capitalistic 
classes  — "  he  read,  and  then  his  eye  ran  down 
the  page  until  he  encountered  the  words: 
"Yours  for  the  Revolution!"  and  "Subscribe 
for  the  Voice  of  Reason!"  Then  a  great  light 
came  over  him  and  he  gnashed  his  teeth  in  a 
fury. 

"Well,  the  dam',  yaller,  two-bit-a-year 
sheet!"  he  raved,  snatching  a  fresh  copy  of  the 
Voice  of  Reason  from  the  sacred  United  States 
mail  and  hastily  scanning  its  headlines,  "and  if 
these  crazy  fools  hain't  gone  and  took  it  seri- 
ous!" He  tore  it  in  two  and  jumped  on  it. 
"Two-bits  a  year!"  he  raged,  "and  for  four- 
bits  I  could  Ve  got  the  Fireside  Companion!" 
He  rummaged  around  in  the  box  and  gathered 
up  every  copy,  determined  to  hurl  them  into 
the  fireplace,  but  on  the  way  the  yellow  wrap- 
per with  the  United  States  stamp  arrested  his 

[101] 


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eye,  and  he  paused.  After  all,  they  were 
United  States  mail  —  penalty  for  destroying 
$1,000  —  and  would  have  to  go  back  into  the 
box. 

"Well,"  he  grumbled,  dumping  them  sul- 
lenly back,  "mebby  it  was  that  new  bar'l  of 
whiskey  —  I  s'pose  they  've  got  to  holler  about 
something  when  they  're  drunk,  the  dam' 
eejits!"  He  strode  up  and  down  the  floor, 
scowling  at  the  unconscious  forms  of  the  rois- 
terers who  had  beaten  him  the  night  before  — 
then  he  turned  back  and  laid  violent  hands 
upon  Angy. 

"Git  off'n  there,  you  low-down,  lazy  hound!" 
he  yelled,  dragging  him  roughly  to  the  floor. 
"You  will  start  a  revolution  and  try  to  kill  your 
boss,  will  you?  You're  fired!"  he  shouted 
when,  after  a  liberal  drenching,  he  had  brought 
Babe  back  to  the  world. 

"Well,  gimme  my  pay,  then,"  returned 
Angy,  holding  out  his  hand  and  blinking. 

"You  don't  git  no  pay!"  declared  Crit,  with 
decision.  "Who  's  goin'  to  pay  for  all  that 

[102] 


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liquor  that  was  drunk  last  night?  Look  at 
them  empty  bottles>  will  you?  You  go  and 
bring  in  all  your  friends  and  open  up  the  town 
and  the  next  mornin'  I  look  in  the  till  and  they 
ain't  a  dam'  cent!" 

"Well,  I  want  my  pay,"  reiterated  Babe, 
drunkenly.  "I  been  workin'  a  long  time,  now 
—  I  'm  goin'  to  draw  my  money  an'  go  home ! 
eMy  mother's  heart  is  breaking  breakin*  fr 
me,  an'  that 's  all  — * "  he  crooned,  and,  rocking 
to  and  fro  on  the  floor,  he  sang  himself  back  to 
sleep. 

Old  Crit  watched  him  a  moment,  sneering; 
then  with  vindictive  exultation  he  turned  his 
attention  to  Pecos.  "Git  up,"  he  snarled,  kick- 
ing the  upturned  soles  of  his  feet,  "this  ain't  no 
bunk-house!  Git  out 'r  here,  now;  you  been 
pesterin'  around  these  parts  too  long!"  He 
seized  the  prostrate  cowboy  by  his  broad  shoul- 
ders and  snaked  him  summarily  out  the  door, 
where  he  lay  sprawling  in  the  dirt,  like  a  turtle 
on  its  back,  a  mock  of  his  strong,  young  man- 
hood. To  the  case-hardened  Babe  the  venom 

[103] 


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of  Old  Grit's  whiskey  was  no  worse  than  a 
death-potion  of  morphine  to  an  opium  fiend, 
but  Pecos  was  completely  paralyzed  by  the 
poison.  He  responded  neither  to  kicks  and 
man-handling  nor  to  frequent  dashes  of  water 
and  at  last  Crittenden  dragged  him  out  behind 
the  corral  and  left  him  there,  a  sight  for  gods 
and  men.  The  Garcia  dogs  crept  up  furtively 
and  sniffed  at  him  and  the  Sefiora  pointed  him 
out  to  her  children  as  an  awful  example  of 
Texano  depravity,  and  also  as  the  bad  man 
who  had  corrupted  their  papa.  Even  Marce- 
lina  wavered  in  her  secret  devotion,  but  after 
he  had  finally  clambered  up  on  his  horse  and 
ridden  blindly  off  toward  Lost  Dog  Canon 
the  thought  of  those  blue  silk  handkerchiefs, 
branded  M,  rose  up  in  her  mind  and  comforted 
her. 


[104] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  DAY  AFTER 

IN  a  land  where  the  desert  is  king  the  pro- 
longed absence  of  even  so  undesirable  a 
citizen  as  Pecos  Dalhart  is  sure,  after  a  while, 
to  occasion  comment.  For  Pecos  had  ridden 
out  on  the  Carrizo  trail  without  water,  and  the 
barren  mesa  had  already  claimed  its  dead  from 
thirst.  He  was  also  hardly  in  his  right  mind, 
and  though  his  horse  knew  the  way  home  he 
might  easily  have  arrived  there  without  his 
master.  Jose  Garcia  was  the  first  to  mention 
the  matter  to  Old  Crit,  and  received  a  hearty 
cursing  for  his  pains.  Another  week  passed 
by,  making  three,  and  still  the  cowboy  did  not 
come  in  for  his  mail.  The  bunch  of  dissipated 
punchers  who  lingered  around  the  bunk-house 
under  pretence  of  riding  the  range  finally 
worked  up  quite  a  hectic  interest  in  the  affair, 

[105] 


THE     TEXICAN 

but  none  of  them  volunteered  to  make  a  search. 
The  chances  were  that  Mr.  Dalhart,  if  still 
alive,  was  in  an  ugly  mood — perhaps  locoed  by 
Grit's  well-known  brand  of  whiskey  —  and  it 
would  be  dangerous  for  an  1C  man  to  ride  in 
on  him.  As  for  Crit,  his  asperity  wore  down  a 
little  as  the  days  of  absence  lengthened  away; 
he  retracted  several  statements  which  he  had 
made  to  the  effect  that  he  hoped  the  blankety- 
blank  was  dead,  and  when  one  of  Boone  Mor- 
gan's deputies  finally  rode  in  to  investigate  the 
rumor  he  told  him  he  was  afraid  the  poor  fellow 
had  wandered  out  across  the  desert  and  per- 
ished of  hunger  and  thirst. 

Bill  Todhunter  was  Boone  Morgan's  regu- 
lar mountain  deputy  —  sent  out  to  look  into 
all  such  affairs  as  this,  and  incidentally  to  get 
evidence  which  would  come  handy  in  the  big 
tax-collecting  that  was  being  planned  for  the 
fall.  He  asked  a  few  questions,  whistled 
through  his  teeth  and  pondered  the  matter  for 
a  while,  meanwhile  scrutinizing  the  hard  coun- 
tenance of  his  informant  with  the  speculative 

[106] 


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cynicism  of  his  profession.  This  was  not  the 
first  sad  case  that  he  had  looked  into  where  a 
man  who  was  not  really  needed  in  the  commu- 
nity had  mysteriously  disappeared,  and  in  one 
desert  tragedy  which  he  had  in  mind  the  corpse 
had  assayed  more  than  a  trace  of  lead. 

"Did  this  man  Dalhart  ever  fill  out  that  as- 
sessor's blank  I  left  for  'im?"  he  inquired,  after 
a  long  pause,  meanwhile  squatting  down  and 
drawing  cattle  brands  in  the  dirt. 

"Don't  know,"  replied  Crit,  shortly. 

"Let 's  see,  his  brand  was  a  Wine-glass, 
was  n't  it?" 

"Nope  —  Monkey-wrench." 

"Oh,  yes !  Sure !  I  knew  they  was  two  new 
irons  in  there,  but  I  got  'em  mixed.  The 
Wine-glass  is  yourn,  ain't  it?" 

Crittenden  nodded  sullenly.  It  was  the 
particular  phase  of  his  relations  with  Pecos 
Dalhart  which  he  would  rather  not  discuss  with 
an  officer.  As  for  the  deputy,  he  spun  the 
wheel  in  his  spur,  whistled  "Paloma,"  and 
looked  out  toward  the  east. 

[1071 


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"Has  he  got  any  mail  here  waitin'  for  'im?" 
he  asked,  rising  slowly  from  his  heels.  "Well, 
you  better  give  it  to  me,  then  —  and  a  little 
grub.  I  Ve  always  wanted  to  take  a  look  at 
that  Lost  Dog  country,  anyway." 

It  was  a  long  trail  and  the  tracks  were  a 
month  old,  but  Pecos's  had  been  the  last  shod 
horse  to  travel  it  and  what  few  cattle  there 
were  in  the  country  had  not  been  able  to  ob- 
scure the  shoe-marks.  Following  those  an- 
cient signs  Bill  Todhunter  worked  his  way 
gradually  into  what  had  been  up  to  that  time, 
No  Man's  Land,  not  forgetting  to  count  the 
Wine-glass  cattle  as  he  passed  the  water  holes. 
Not  so  many  years  before  the  Apaches  had 
held  full  sway  over  all  the  Tonto  and  Verde 
country  and  when  the  first  settlers  came  in  they 
had  naturally  located  along  the  rivers,  leaving 
the  barren  mountains  to  the  last.  It  was  a 
long  way  from  nowhere,  that  mysterious  little 
Lost  Dog  Canon,  and  when  the  deputy  rode 
into  it  looking  for  a  man  whose  trail  was  a 
month  old  he  felt  the  sobering  influence  of  its 

[108] 


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funereal  cliffs.  Black  and  forbidding,  they 
bent  bodingly  over  the  tiny  valley  with  its 
grove  of  cottonwoods  and  wild  walnuts,  and 
upon  the  western  rim  a  squalid  group  of  buz- 
zards dozed  as  if  they  had  made  a  feast.  At 
the  edge  of  the  stream  Todhunter  reined  in  his 
horse,  but  though  his  flanks  were  gaunted  the 
animal  would  not  drink.  Instead  he  raised  his 
head  and  snuffed  the  air,  curiously.  It  looked 
ominous,  for  they  were  at  the  end  of  the  trail 
and  the  tracks  still  pointed  in.  The  deputy 
spurred  nervously  across  the  stream,  s/till  with 
his  eye  out  for  signs,  and  fetched  up  with  a 
jerk.  There,  fresh  and  clean  in  the  moist  sand, 
were  the  imprints  of  a  man's  boots,  coming 
down  to  the  water  —  and  not  once  or  twice,  but 
a  dozen  times. 

"Ahem,"  coughed  Todhunter,  turning  into 
the  path,  "stan'  up  hyar,  bronc  —  what 's  the 
matter  with  you!"  He  jerked  his  unoffending 
horse  out  of  the  trail  and  clattered  him  over 
the  rocks,  for  your  true  officer  does  not  crowd 
in  with  drawn  pistol  on  a  man  he  cannot  see. 

[109] 


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The  deputy  was  strictly  a  man  of  peace  —  and 
he  tried  to  look  the  part.  His  badge  was 
pinned  carefully  to  the  inside  flap  of  his  vest 
and  if  he  had  a  gun  anywhere  it  did  not  show. 
He  swung  his  quirt  in  one  hand,  idly  slapping 
it  against  his  chaps,  and  then,  having  offered 
every  sign  that  he  came  openly  and  as  a  friend, 
he  rode  cautiously  up  to  the  camp. 

There  was  a  fire  smouldering  upon  a  stone- 
walled mound  at  the  entrance  to  the  cave  and 
beside  it,  reclining  in  a  rustic  chair,  sat  Pecos 
Dalhart  —  watchful,  silent,  alert.  In  one 
hand  he  held  a  cigarette  and  the  other  sup- 
ported a  grimy  newspaper  which  he  had  been 
reading.  Behind  him  on  tall  poles  were  boxes 
filled  with  food,  protected  by  tin  cans,  mush- 
roomed out  around  the  posts  to  keep  the  rats 
from  climbing.  His  saddle  was  hung  up  care- 
fully on  a  rack  and  his  carbine  leaned  against 
the  chair  where  he  was  sitting,  but  though  he 
had  seen  no  one  for  a  month  Pecos  barely 
glanced  up  from  his  paper  as  the  stranger  drew 
near. 

[no] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Howd'  do,"  observed  the  deputy,  sitting  at 
ease  in  his  saddle. 

"Howdy,"  Pecos  grunted,  and  languidly 
touching  his  dead  cigarette  to  a  coal  he  pro- 
ceeded with  his  reading.  Todhunter  looked 
his  camp  over  critically,  took  note  of  the 
amount  of  food  stored  in  the  rat-proof  boxes 
and  of  the  ingenious  workmanship  on  the 
rustic  chair;  then  his  eyes  wandered  back  and 
fixed  themselves  on  Pecos.  Instead  of  the 
roistering  boy  he  had  expected  he  beheld  a  full- 
grown  man  with  a  month's  growth  of  curly 
beard  and  his  jaw  set  like  a  steel-trap,  as  if, 
after  all,  he  was  not  unprepared  for  trouble. 
His  hat,  however,  was  shoved  back  carelessly 
on  his  bushy  head,  his  legs  crossed,  and  his  pose 
was  that  of  elegant  and  luxurious  ease.  To 
the  left  arm  of  his  chair  he  had  attached  a 
horse's  hoof,  bottom  up,  in  the  frog  of  which 
he  laid  his  cigarettes ;  to  the  right  was  fastened 
a  little  box  filled  with  tobacco  and  brown  pa- 
pers, and  the  fire,  smouldering  upon  its  altar, 
was  just  close  enough  to  provide  a  light.  Evi- 

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dently  the  lone  inhabitant  of  the  canon  had 
made  every  endeavor  to  be  comfortable  and 
was  not  above  doing  a  little  play-acting  to  con- 
vey the  idea  of  unconcern,  but  the  deputy  sher- 
iff did  not  fail  to  notice  the  carbine,  close  at 
hand,  and  the  pistol  by  his  side.  It  seemed  to 
him  also  that  while  his  man  was  apparently 
deeply  immersed  in  his  month-old  paper,  his 
eyes,  staring  and  intent,  looked  past  it  and 
watched  his  every  move.  The  conversation 
having  ceased,  then,  and  his  curiosity  having 
been  satisfied,  Bill  Todhunter  leaned  slowly 
back  to  his  saddle  bags  and  began  to  untie  a 
package. 

"Are  you  Mr.  Dalhart?"  he  inquired,  as  the 
cowboy  met  his  eye. 

"That 's  my  name,"  replied  Pecos,  stiffly. 

"Well,  I  Ve  got  s'm'  papers  for  you,"  ob- 
served the  deputy,  enigmatically,  and  if  he  had 
been  in  two  minds  as  to  the  way  Pecos  would 
take  this  statement  his  doubts  were  instantly 
set  at  rest.  At  the  word  "papers" —  the  same 
being  used  for  "warrants"  by  most  officers  of 

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the  law  —  the  cowboy  rose  up  in  his  chair  and 
laid  one  hand  on  the  butt  of  his  revolver. 

"Not  for  me!"  he  said,  a  cold,  steely -blue 
look  comin'  into  his  eyes.  "It  11  take  a  better 
man  than  you  to  serve  'em!" 

"These  are  newspapers,"  corrected  the  dep- 
uty, quietly.  "Yore  friends  down  on  the 
Verde,  not  havin'  seen  you  for  some  time,  asked 
me  to  take  out  yore  mail  and  see  if  you  was 
all  right." 

"Oh!"  grunted  Pecos,  suspiciously. 

"And,  bein'  as  you  seem  to  be  all  O.  K.," 
continued  Todhunter,  pacifically,  "I  '11  jest 
turn  'em  over  to  you  and  be  on  my  way."  He 
threw  the  bundle  at  his  feet,  wheeled  his  horse 
and  without  another  word  rode  soberly  down 
the  trail. 

"Hey!"  shouted  Pecos,  as  the  stranger 
plunged  through  the  creek,  but  if  Todhunter 
heard  him  he  made  no  sign.  There  are  some 
people  who  never  know  when  to  go,  but  Bill 
Todhunter  was  not  that  kind. 

"No,  you  bet  that  feller  ain't  dead,"  he  ob- 

8  [113] 


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served,  when  Crittenden  and  the  chance  resi- 
dents of  Verde  Crossing  gathered  about  him 
to  hear  the  news.  "He  's  sure  up  an'  comin', 
and  on  the  prod  bigger  'n  a  wolf.  I  would  n't 
like  to  say  whether  he  's  quite  right  in  the  head 
or  not  but  I  reckon  it  '11  pay  to  humor  'im  a 
little.  He  '11  be  down  here  for  grub  in  about 
another  week,  too." 

The  week  passed,  but  not  without  its  happen- 
ings to  Verde  Crossing.  The  first  event  was 
the  return  of  Angevine  Thorne  from  Geron- 
imo,  after  a  prolonged  stay  in  the  city  Bastile. 
Crit  sent  the  bail  money  down  by  Todhunter 
immediately  upon  hearing  the  news  that  Pecos 
Dalhart  was  alive  and  on  the  prod.  The  only 
man  on  the  Verde  who  had  any  influence  with 
Pecos  was  his  old  "cumrad,"  Babe,  and  Crit- 
tenden was  anxious  to  get  that  genial  soul  back 
before  Pecos  came  in  for  supplies.  But  the 
same  buckboard  that  brought  the  Champion  of 
Arizona  back  to  his  old  haunts  took  his  little 
friend  Marcelina  away,  and  the  only  reason 
the  Senora  would  give  was  that  her  daughter 

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was  going  to  school.  In  vain  Babe  palavered 
her  in  Spanish  and  cross-questioned  the  stolid 
Jose.  The  fear  of  her  lawless  wooer  was  upon 
them  —  for  were  they  not  in  debt  to  Crit- 
and  not  even  by  indirection  would  the  fiery 
Senora  give  vent  to  the  rage  which  burned  in 
her  heart. 

"This  is  not  a  good  place  for  my  daughter," 
she  said,  her  eyes  carefully  fixed  upon  the 
ground.  "It  is  better  that  she  should  go  to  the 
Sisters'  school  and  learn  her  catechism."  So 
Marcelina.  was  sent  away  from  the  evil  men  of 
Verde,  for  she  was  already  a  woman;  but  in 
the  haste  of  packing  she  managed  to  snatch 
just  one  of  the  forbidden  blue  handkerchiefs, 
branded  M. 

It  was  a  sombre  welcome  which  awaited  the 
lone  rustler  of  Lost  Dog  Canon  when,  driven 
perforce  to  town,  he  led  his  pack-horse  up  to 
the  store.  For  a  minute  he  sat  in  his  saddle, 
silent  and  watchful;  then,  throwing  his  bridle- 
reins  on  the  ground,  he  stalked  defiantly 
through  the  door.  A  couple  of  1C  cowboys 

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were  sitting  at  the  card-table  in  the  corner, 
playing  a  three-handed  game  of  poker  with 
Angy,  and  at  sight  of  him  they  measured  the 
distance  to  the  door  with  their  eyes. 

"W'y,  hello  there,  Pecos!"  cried  Angy,  kick- 
ing over  the  table  in  his  haste  to  grasp  him  by 
the  hand.  "Where  you  been  all  the  time  —  we 
thought  for  a  time  here  you  was  dead!" 

"Might  as  well  'a  been,"  said  Pecos,  gruffly, 
"for  all  anybody  give  a  dam' !" 

"Why?  What  was  the  matter?  Did  you 
git  lost?" 

"I  lay  out  on  the  mesa  for  two  days,"  an- 
swered the  cowboy,  briefly,  "and  about  a  month 
afterwards  a  feller  come  out  to  my  camp  to 
see  if  I  was  dead.  This  is  a  hell  of  an  outfit," 
he  observed,  glancing  malevolently  at  the  1C 
cowboys,  "and  by  the  way,"  he  added,  "where 
was  you  all  the  time,  Angy?" 

Angevine  Thome's  lips  trembled  at  this 
veiled  accusation  and  he  stretched  out  his 
hands  pleadingly.  "I  swear,  Pardner,"  he 

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protested,  "I  never  heard  a  word  about  it  until 
last  Saturday!  I  was  in  the  Geronimo  jail." 

"Oh!"  said  Pecos,  and  without  more  words 
he  gave  him  his  own  right  hand.  The  cow- 
boys, who  had  been  uneasy  witnesses  of  the 
scene,  seized  upon  this  as  a  favorable  oppor- 
tunity to  make  their  escape,  leaving  the  two 
of  them  to  talk  it  out  together. 

"What  in  the  world  happened  to  us,  Angy?" 
demanded  Pecos  in  a  hushed  voice,  when  the 
effusion  of  reconciliation  had  passed,  "did  Crit 
put  gun-powder  in  our  whiskey  or  was  it  a 
case  of  stuffed  club?  I  was  plumb  paralyzed, 
locoed,  and  cross-eyed  for  a  week  —  and  my 
head  ain't  been  right  since!"  He  brushed  his 
hand  past  his  face  and  made  a  motion  as  of 
catching  little  devils  out  of  the  air,  but  Angy 
stayed  his  arm. 

"Xothin'  like  that,  Pecos,"  he  pleaded, 
hoarsely,  "I  'm  on  the  ragged  edge  of  the  jim- 
jams  myself,  and  if  I  get  to  thinkin'  of  crawly 
things  I  '11  sure  get  'em!  Xo,  it  was  jest  that 

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accursed  liquor!  I  don't  know  what  hap- 
pened —  I  remember  Crit  takin'  me  down  to 
Geronimo  and  givin'  me  five  dollars  and  then  it 
was  all  a  dream  until  I  found  myself  in  the  jag- 
cell.  But  it 's  the  liquor  that  does  it,  Pecos  — 
that  and  the  capitalistic  classes  and  the  officers 
of  the  law.  They  's  no  hope  for  the  common 
people  as  long  as  they  keep  on  drinkin' — 
there  's  always  some  feller  like  Crit  to  skin 
'em,  and  the  constables  to  run  'em  in.  It 's 
a  conspiracy,  I  tell  you ;  they  're  banded  to- 
gether to  drug  and  rob  us  —  but,  Pardner, 
there  is  one  man  who  is  going  to  balk  the 
cowardly  curs.  Never,  never,  never,  will  I  let 
another  drop  of  liquor  pass  my  lips!"  He 
raised  his  hand  to  heaven  as  he  swore  the  fa- 
miliar oath,  hoping  and  yet  not  hoping  that 
some  power  would  come  down  to  him  to  help 
him  fight  his  fate.  "Will  you  join  me, 
Cumrad?"  he  asked,  laying  hold  of  Pecos's 
shoulder.  "You  will?  Well,  let 's  shake  on  it 
—  here  's  to  the  revolution !" 

[us] 


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They  shook,  and  turned  instinctively  toward 
the  bar,  but  such  a  pledge  cannot  be  cemented 
in  the  usual  manner,  so  Angy  led  the  way  out- 
side and  sought  a  seat  in  the  shade. 

"Where's  my  little  friend  Marcelina?"  in- 
quired Pecos,  after  a  long  look  at  the  white 
adobe  with  the  brush  ramada  which  housed  the 
Garcia  family,  "hidin'  behind  a  straw  some- 
where?" 

"Gone!"  said  Angy,  solemnly.  "Gone,  I 
know  not  where." 

"What  —  you  don't  mean  to  say-  '  cried 
Pecos,  starting  up. 

"Her  mother  sent  her  down  to  Geronimo 
the  day  that  I  came  up,"  continued  Babe,  wink- 
ing fast.  "It  looks  as  if  she  fears  my  in- 
fluence, but  she  will  not  say.  Poor  little  Mar- 
celina—  how  I  miss  her!"  He  wiped  his 
eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand  and  shook  his 
head  sadly.  "Verde  ain't  been  the  same  to  me 
since  then,"  he  said,  "an'  life  ain't  worth  livin'. 
W'y,  Pecos,  if  I  thought  we  done  something 


THE    TEXICAN 

we  oughten  to  when  we  was  drunk  that  time 
I  'd  go  out  and  cut  my  throat  —  but  the  Sefiora 
is  powerful  mad.  Kin  you  recollect  what  went 
on?" 

A  vision  of  himself  trying  to  barter  his  mail- 
order package  for  a  kiss  flashed  up  before 
Pecos  in  lines  of  fire,  but  he  shut  his  lips  and 
sat  silent.  The  exaltation  and  shame  of  that 
moment  came  back  to  him  in  a  mighty  pang  of 
sorrow  and  he  bowed  his  head  on  his  arms. 
What  if,  in  the  fury  of  drink  and  passion,  he 
had  offered  some  insult  to  his  Senorita  —  the 
girl  who  had  crept  unbeknown  into  his  rough 
life  and  filled  it  with  her  smile!  No  further 
memory  of  that  black  night  was  seered  into 
his  clouded  brain  —  the  vision  ended  with  the 
presentation  of  the  package.  What  followed 
was  confined  only  to  the  limitations  of  man's 
brutal  whims.  For  a  minute  Pecos  contem- 
plated this  wreck  of  all  his  hopes  —  then,  from 
the  abyss  of  his  despair  there  rose  a  voice  that 
cried  for  revenge.  Revenge  for  his  muddled 

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brain,  for  the  passion  which  came  with  drink: 
revenge  for  his  girl,  whom  he  had  lost  by  some 
foolish  drunken  freak!  He  leapt  to  his  feet 
in  a  fury. 

"It's  that  dastard,  Crit!"  he  cried,  shaking 
his  fists  in  the  air.  "He  sold  us  his  cussed 
whiskey  —  he  sent  us  on  our  way !  And  now 
I  'm  goin'  to  git  him!" 

Angy  gazed  up  at  him  questioningly  and 
then  raised  a  restraining  hand. 

"It 's  more  than  him,  Cumrad,"  he  said 
solemnly.  "More  than  him!  If  Crit  should 
die  to-morrow  the  system  would  raise  up  an- 
other robber  to  take  his  place.  It 's  the  Sys- 
tem, Pecos,  the  System  —  this  here  awful 
conspiracy  of  the  capitalistic  classes  and  the 
servile  officers  of  the  law  —  that  keeps  the  poor 
man  down.  Worse,  aye,  worse  than  the 
Demon  Rum,  is  the  machinations  which  puts 
the  power  of  government  into  the  monopolistic 
hands  of  capital  and  bids  the  workingman  earn 
his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow.  There  is 

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only  one  answer  to  the  crime  of  government 
—  the  revolution!" 

"Well,  let  'er  go  then,"  cried  Pecos,  im- 
pulsively. "The  revolution  she  is  until  the 
last  card  falls  —  but  all  the  same  I  got  my  eye 
on  Grit!" 


[122] 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEATH  AND  TAXES 

THE  iron  hand  of  the  law  after  hovering 
long  above  the  Verde  at  last  descended 
suddenly  and  with  crushing  force  upon  the 
unsuspecting  cowmen.  For  a  year  Boone 
Morgan  had  been  dallying  around,  even  as 
other  sheriffs  had  done  before  him,  and  the 
first  fears  of  the  wary  mountain  men  had 
speedily  been  lulled  into  a  feeling  of  false  se- 
curity. Then  the  fall  round-ups  came  on  and 
in  the  general  scramble  of  that  predatory 
period  Morgan  managed  to  scatter  a  posse  of 
newly  appointed  deputies,  disguised  as  cow- 
boys, throughout  the  upper  range.  They  re- 
turned and  reported  the  tally  at  every  brand- 
ing and  the  next  week  every  cowman  on  the 
Verde  received  notice  that  his  taxes  on  so 
many  head  of  cattle,  corral  count,  were  due 

[123] 


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and  more  than  due.  They  were  due  for  sev- 
eral years  back  but  Mr.  Boone  Morgan,  as 
deputy  assessor,  deputy  tax-collector,  and  so 
forth,  would  give  them  a  receipt  in  full  upon 
the  payment  of  the  fiscal  demand.  This  would 
have  sounded  technical  in  the  mouth  of  an 
ordinary  tax-collector  but  coming  from  a  large, 
iron-gray  gentleman  with  a  six-shooter  that 
had  been  through  the  war,  it  went.  Upton 
paid;  Crittenden  paid;  they  all  paid  —  all  ex- 
cept Pecos  Dalhart. 

It  was  at  the  store,  shortly  after  he  had  put 
the  thumb-screws  on  Ike  Crittenden  and  ex- 
tracted the  last  ultimate  cent,  that  Boone 
Morgan  tackled  Pecos  for  his  taxes.  He  had 
received  a  vivid  word-picture  of  the  lone  resi- 
dent of  Lost  Dog  from  his  deputy,  Bill  Tod- 
hunter,  and  Pecos  had  been  equally  fortified 
against  surprise  by  Angevine  Thorne.  They 
came  face  to  face  as  Pecos  was  running  over 
the  scare-heads  of  the  Voice  of  Reason,  and 
the  hardy  citizens  of  Verde  Crossing  held  their 
breaths  and  listened  for  thunder,  for  Pecos  had 

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THE     TEXICAN 

stated  publicly  that  he  did  not  mean  to 
pay. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Dalhart,  I  believe,"  began  the 
sheriff  in  that  suave  and  genial  manner  which 
most  elected  officials  have  at  their  command. 
"Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Dalhart.  There  's  a 
little  matter  of  business  I  'd  like  to  discuss,  if 
you  '11  jest  step  outside  a  moment.  Yes, 
thank  you.  Nice  weather  we  're  having  now 
—  how  's  the  feed  up  on  your  range  ?  That 's 
good  —  that 's  fine.  Now,  Mr.  Dalhart,  I 
don't  suppose  you  get  your  mail  very  regular, 
and  mebby  you  ain't  much  of  a  correspondent 
anyway,  but  my  name  's  Morgan  —  I  'm  a 
deputy  tax-collector  right  now  —  and  I  'd  like 
to  have  you  fill  out  this  blank,  giving  the  num- 
ber of  assessable  cattle  you  have.  Sent  you 
one  or  two  by  mail,  but  this  is  jest  as  good. 
Sorry,  you  understand,  but  the  county  needs 
the  money." 

"Yes,  I  'm  sorry,  too,"  observed  Pecos, 
sardonically,  "because  it  '11  never  git  none 
from  me." 

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THE     TEXICAN 

"Oh,  I  dunno,"  replied  the  sheriff,  sizing 
his  man  up  carefully,  "Geronimo  County  has 
been  able  to  take  care  of  itself,  so  far;  and 
when  I  put  the  matter  in  its  proper  light  to 
men  who  have  been  a  little  lax  in  the  past  — 
men  like  Upton  and  Mr.  Crittenden,  for  in- 
stance —  they  seem  perfectly  willing  to  pay. 
These  taxes  are  to  support  the  county  govern- 
ment, you  understand  —  to  build  roads  and 
keep  up  the  schools  and  all  that  sort  of  thing 
-  and  every  property-owner  ought  to  be  glad 
to  do  his  share.  Now  about  how  many  head 
of  cows  have  you  got  up  at  Lost  Dog  Canon?" 

"I  Ve  got  jest  about  enough  to  keep  me  in 
meat,"  answered  Pecos,  evasively. 

"Um,  that  'd  be  about  two  hundred  head, 
would  n't  it?" 

Two  hundred  was  a  close  guess,  and  this  un- 
expected familiarity  with  his  affairs  startled 
the  cowboy,  but  his  face,  nevertheless,  did  not 
lose  its  defiant  stare.  Two  hundred  was  really 
the  difference  between  what  U  cows  Upton 
had  lost  last  spring  and  the  total  of  Critten- 

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den's  Wine-glass  bunch,  and  Boone  Morgan 
was  deeply  interested  in  the  whereabouts  of 
that  particular  two  hundred  head.  To  Old 
Grit,  this  tax-collecting  was  only  a  mean  raid 
on  his  pocket-book  —  to  Morgan  it  was  the 
first  step  in  his  campaign  against  cattle  rust- 
ling. When  he  had  determined  the  number 
of  head  in  every  brand  he  might  be  able  to 
prove  a  theft  —  but  not  till  then. 

"Call  it  two  hundred,"  he  suggested,  hold- 
ing out  the  paper  encouragingly,  but  Pecos 
drew  back  his  hand  scornfully. 

"Not  if  it  was  a  cow  and -calf,"  he  said,  "I 
would  n't  pay  a  cent.  D'  ye  think  I  want  to 
pay  a  government  of  robbers?  What  does 
yore  dam'  government  do  for  me,  or  any  other 
pore  man,  but  make  us  trouble?" 

"Well,  sometimes  that 's  all  a  government 
can  do  for  a  certain  class  of  people,"  observed 
the  sheriff,  eying  him  coldly,  "and  I  'd  like  to 
say  right  now,  Mr.  Dalhart,  that  in  such  a 
case  it  can  make  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  trouble." 

Pecos  grunted. 

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"Now,  jest  for  instance,"  continued  Morgan, 
warming  up  a  little,  "in  case  you  don't  pay 
your  taxes  on  them  two  hundred  head  of  cattle 
I  can  get  judgment  against  you,  seize  any  or 
all  of  'em,  and  sell  the  whole  shooting-match 
for  taxes.  I  '11  do  it,  too,"  he  added. 

"Well,  turn  yoreself  loose,  then,"  flared 
back  Pecos,  "the  bars  are  down.  But  I  '11  tell 
you  right  now,  the  first  deputy  tax-collector 
that  puts  a  rope  on  one  of  my  cows,  I  '11 
bounce  a  rock  off  'n  him  —  or  something 


worse !" 


"I  ain't  accustomed  to  take  no  threats,  Mr. 
Dalhart,"  bellowed  Boone  Morgan,  his  temper 
getting  away  with  him,  "and  especially  from 
a  man  in  your  line  of  business!  Now  you  go 
your  way,  and  go  as  far  as  you  please,  but  if 
I  don't  put  the  fear  of  God  into  your  black, 
cattle-rustling  heart  my  name  is  'Sic  'em'  and 
I  'm  a  dog.  I  '11  collect  them  taxes,  sir,  next 
week!" 

"Like  hell  you  will,"  snarled  Pecos,  throw- 
ing out  his  chin.  He  scowled  back  at  the  irate 

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officer,  cast  a  baleful  glance  at  the  1C  punchers, 
and  mounted  from  the  far  side  of  his  horse, 
but  when  he  rode  away  Ike  Crittenden  went 
out  behind  the  corral  and  laughed  until  he 
choked.  After  all  the  trouble  this  man  Dai- 
hart  had  made  him,  just  to  think  of  him  lock- 
ing horns  with  Boone  Morgan!  And  all  from 
his  crazy  reading  of  the  Voice  of  Reason! 
The  memory  of  his  own  enforced  tax-paying 
fell  away  from  him  like  a  dream  at  the  thought 
of  Pecos  Dalhart  putting  up  a  fight  against 
the  sheriff  of  Geronimo  County,  and  on  the 
strength  of  it  he  took  a  couple  of  drinks  and 
was  good-natured  for  a  week. 

If  Pecos  had  had  some  self-appointed  critic 
to  point  out  just  how  foolish  he  was  he  might 
have  seen  a  new  light,  gathered  up  about 
twenty  head  of  Monkey-wrench  steers  and 
sold  them  to  pay  his  taxes;  but  his  only  re- 
course in  this  extremity  was  to  the  Voice  of 
Reason,  and  whatever  its  other  good  qualities 
are,  that  journal  has  never  been  accused  of 
preaching  moderation  and  reason.  It  was  war 
9  [129] 


THE    TEXICAN 

to  the  knife  with  Pecos,  from  the  jump,  and 
the  day  after  his  return  he  took  his  carbine, 
his  cigarette  makings,  and  the  last  Voice  of 
Reason  and  went  up  the  trail  to  lie  in  wait 
for  Boone  Morgan.  The  country  around 
Lost  Dog  Canon  is  mostly  set  on  edge  and 
the  entrance  to  the  valley  is  through  a  narrow 
and  crooked  ravine,  filled  with  bowlders  and 
faced  with  sun-blackened  sandstone  rocks, 
many  of  which,  from  some  fracture  of  their 
weathered  surface,  are  pock-marked  with 
giant  "wind-holes."  Into  one  of  these  natural 
pockets,  from  the  shelter  of  which  a  single 
man  could  stand  off  a  regiment,  Pecos  hoisted 
himself  with  the  dawn,  and  he  did  not  leave  it 
again  till  dark.  As  the  wind  came  up  and, 
sucking  in  through  the  opening,  hollowed  out 
each  day  its  little  more,  the  loose  sand  from 
the  soft  walls  blew  into  Pecos's  eyes  and  he 
gave  up  his  fervid  reading ;  but  except  for  that 
and  for  the  times  when  from  the  blackness  of 
his  cavern  he  searched  the  narrow  trail  for  his 
enemies,  he  pored  over  the  Voice  of  Reason 

[130] 


THE    TEXICAN 

as  a  Christian  martyr  might  brood  over  his 
Bible.  It  was  his  religion,  linked  with  that 
far  more  ancient  religion  of  revenge,  and  if 
Boone  Morgan  or  any  other  deputy  tax  col- 
lector had  broken  in  upon  his  reveries  they 
certainly  would  have  stopped  something  worse 
than  a  bouncing  stone. 

But  no  one  played  into  his  hand  to  that 
extent.  They  say  the  Apaches  educated  the 
whole  United  States  army  in  the  art  of  modern 
warfare  and  Boone  Morgan  as  a  frontier  In- 
dian fighter  had  been  there  to  learn  his  part. 
In  the  days  when  Cochise  and  Geronimo  were 
loose  he  had  travelled  behind  Indian  scouts 
over  all  kinds  of  country,  and  one  of  the  first 
things  he  had  mastered  was  the  value  of  high 
ground.  He  had  learned  also  that  one  man 
in  the  rocks  is  worth  a  troop  on  the  trail  and 
while  he  was  gathering  up  a  posse  to  discipline 
Pecos  Dalhart  he  sent  Bill  Todhunter  ahead 
to  prospect.  For  two  long  days  that  wary 
deputy  haunted  the  rim-rock  that  shut  in  Lost 
Dog  Canon,  crawling  on  his  belly  like  a  snake, 

[131] 


THE     TEXICAN 

and  at  last,  just  at  sundown,  his  patience  was 
rewarded  by  the  sight  of  the  lost  Pecos,  carbine 
in  hand,  rising  up  from  nowhere  and  return- 
ing to  his  camp.  As  the  smoke  rose  from  his 
newly  lighted  fire  Todhunter  slipped  quietly 
down  the  ravine  and,  stepping  from  rock  to 
rock,  followed  the  well-trampled  trail  till  he 
came  to  the  mouth  of  the  wind-cave.  Peering 
cautiously  in  he  caught  the  odor  of  stale 
tobacco  smoke  and  saw  the  litter  of  old  papers 
on  the  sandy  floor,  signs  enough  that  Pecos 
lived  there  —  then,  as  the  strategy  and  pur- 
pose of  the  cattle-rustler  became  plain,  he 
picked  his  way  back  to  his  lonely  camp  and 
waited  for  another  day.  With  the  dawn  he 
was  up  again  and  watching,  and  when  he  saw 
Pecos  come  back  and  hide  himself  in  his  wind- 
cave  he  straightened  up  and  set  about  his 
second  quest  —  the  search  for  the  Monkey- 
wrench  cattle.  At  the  time  of  his  first  visit 
to  Lost  Dog  he  had  seen  a  few  along  the  creek 
but  there  must  be  more  of  them  down  the 
canon,  and  the  farther  away  they  could  be 

[132] 


THE     TEXICAN 

found  the  better  it  would  suit  his  chief.  It 
was  not  Boone  Morgan's  purpose  to  start  a 
war  —  all  he  wanted  was  enough  Monkey- 
wrench  cattle  to  pay  the  taxes,  and  a  way  to 
get  them  out.  The  indications  so  far  were 
that  Pecos  had  them  in  a  bottle  and  was  wait- 
ing at  the  neck,  but  if  the  water  ran  down  the 
canon  there  must  be  a  hole  somewhere,  rea- 
soned the  deputy,  or  better  than  that,  a  trail. 
Working  his  way  along  the  rim  Bill  Todhunter 
finally  spied  the  drift-fence  across  the  box  of 
the  canon,  and  soon  from  his  high  perch  he 
was  gazing  down  into  that  stupendous  hole  in 
the  ground  that  Pecos  had  turned  into  a  pas- 
ture. From  the  height  of  the  towering  cliffs 
the  cattle  seemed  like  rabbits  feeding  in  tiny 
spots  of  green,  but  there  they  were,  more  than 
a  hundred  of  them,  and  when  the  deputy  be- 
held the  sparkling  waters  of  the  Salagua  below 
them  and  the  familiar  pinnacles  of  the  Super- 
stitions beyond  he  laughed  and  fell  to  whistling 
"Paloma"  through  his  teeth.  Boone  Morgan 
had  hunted  Apaches  in  the  Superstitions,  and 

[133] 


THE     TEXICAN 

he  knew  them  like  a  book.  With  one  man  on 
the  rim-rocks  to  keep  tab  on  Pecos,  Boone  and 
his  posse  could  take  their  time  to  it,  if  there 
was  any  way  to  get  in  from  that  farther  side. 
Anyhow,  he  had  located  the  cattle  —  the  next 
thing  was  to  get  word  to  the  Old  Man. 

As  a  government  scout  Boone  Morgan  had 
proved  that  he  was  fearless,  but  they  did  not 
keep  him  for  that  —  they  kept  him  because  he 
brought  his  men  back  to  camp,  every  time. 
The  effrontery  of  Pecos  Dalhart's  daring  to 
challenge  his  authority  had  stirred  his  choler, 
but  when  Bill  Todhunter  met  him  at  the  river 
and  told  him  how  the  ground  lay  he  passed  up 
the  temptation  to  pot  Pecos  as  he  crawled  out 
of  his  hole  in  the  rock,  and  rode  for  the  lower 
crossing  of  the  Salagua.  The  trail  which  the 
hardy  revolutionist  of  Lost  Dog  Canon  was 
guarding  was,  indeed,  the  only  one  on  the 
north  side  of  the  river.  From  the  pasture 
where  his  cows  were  hidden  the  Salagua  passed 
down  a  box  canon  so  deep  and  precipitous  that 
the  mountain  sheep  could  not  climb  it,  and 


THE     TEXICAN 

even  with  his  cowboy-deputies  Boone  Morgan 
could  hardly  hope  to  run  the  Monkey-wrench 
cows  out  over  the  peaks  without  drawing  the 
fire  of  their  owner.  But  there  was  a  trail  — 
and  it  was  a  bad  one  —  that  led  across  the  des- 
ert from  the  Salagua  until  it  cut  the  old  Final 
trail,  far  to  the  south,  and  that  historic  highway 
had  led  many  a  war  party  of  Apaches  through 
the  very  heart  of  the  Superstitions.  East  it 
ran,  under  the  frowning  bastions  of  the  great 
mountain,  and  then  northeast  until  it  came  out 
just  across  the  river  from  Pecos  Dalhart's  pas- 
ture. It  was  a  long  ride  —  sixty  miles,  and 
half  of  it  over  the  desert  —  but  the  river  was  at 
its  lowest  water,  just  previous  to  the  winter 
rains,  and  once  there  Boone  Morgan  felt  cer- 
tain they  could  make  out  to  cross  the  cattle. 

"And  mind  you,  boys,"  he  said  to  his  posse, 
as  they  toiled  up  the  wearisome  grade,  "don't 
you  leave  a  single  cow  in  that  pasture  or  I  'm 
going  to  be  sore  as  a  goat.  The  county  pays 
mileage  for  this,  and  the  taxes  will  be  a  few 
cents,  too  —  but  I  'm  going  to  put  one  rustler 

[135] 


THE     TEXICAN 

out  of  business  at  the  start  by  a  hell-roaring 
big  sheriff's  sale.  I  'm  going  to  show  some  of 
these  Texas  hold-ups  that  Arizona  ain't  no 
cow-thief's  paradise  —  not  while  old  Boone  's 
on  the  job." 

The  second  night  saw  them  camped  on  the 
edge  of  the  river  just  across  from  the  pasture, 
and  in  the  morning  they  crossed  on  a  riffle, 
every  man  with  his  orders  for  the  raid.  By 
noon  the  cattle  began  to  come  down  the  valley, 
tail  up  and  running  before  the  drive;  not  a 
word  was  spoken,  for  each  man  knew  his  busi- 
ness, but  when  the  thirsty  herd  of  Monkey- 
wrench  cows  finally  waded  out  into  the  river 
to  drink,  a  sudden  rush  of  horsemen  from  be- 
hind crowded  the  point  animals  into  swimming 
water,  and  before  the  leaders  knew  what  had 
happened  they  were  half  way  across  the  river 
and  looking  for  a  landing. 

"Ho  —  ho  —  Jio  —  ko  —  ho!"  shouted  the 
sheriff,  riding  in  to  turn  them  upstream,  and 
behind  him  a  chorus  of  cowboy  yells  urged  the 
last  bewildered  stragglers  into  the  current. 

[136] 


THE     TEXICAN 

They  crossed,  cows  and  calves  alike,  and  while 
the  jubilant  posse  came  splashing  after  them 
or  rode  howling  up  to  the  ford  Boone  Morgan 
poured  the  water  out  of  his  boots  and  smiled 
pleasantly. 

"Jest  hold  'em  in  the  willows  a  while,  boys," 
he  said,  "until  they  git  quieted  down  and  drink, 
and  then  we  '11  hit  the  trail.  There  's  over  a 
hundred  head  of  cattle  there,  but  I  'm  going  to 
sell  every  dam'  one  of  'em  —  sheriff's  sale. 
Then  when  that  crazy  Texican  gets  back  on  the 
reservation  I  '11  give  him  back  his  money  — 
what 's  left  —  along  with  some  good  advice." 

He  motioned  to  the  boys  to  string  the  cattle 
out  and  soon  in  a  long  line  the  much-stolen 
Monkey-wrench  cows  were  shambling  over  the 
rough  trail,  lowing  and  bellowing  for  the 
peaceful  valley  that  lay  empty  of  its  herd. 
From  the  high  cliffs  above  Lost  Dog  Canon, 
Bill  Todhunter  saw  the  slow  procession  wend- 
ing its  way  toward  town  and  he  made  haste 
to  follow  its  example.  The  old  silence  settled 
down  upon  the  valley  of  Perro  Perdito,  a 

[137] 


THE    TEXICAN 

silence  unbroken  even  by  the  lowing  of  cattle, 
and  as  Pecos  lay  by  his  fire  that  night  he  felt 
the  subtle  change.  His  mind,  so  long  set 
against  his  enemies,  opened  up,  and  he  began  to 
wonder.  Boone  Morgan  had  certainly  said  he 
would  collect  those  taxes  within  a  week,  and 
the  week  was  up.  Moreover,  hiding  in  a  wind- 
hole  from  daylight  till  dark  was  getting  de- 
cidedly monotonous.  From  the  beginning 
Pecos  had  realized  that  he  was  one  man  against 
many  but  he  had  hoped,  by  remaining  hid,  to 
catch  them  at  a  disadvantage.  If  they 
sneaked  up  and  looked  over  into  the  lonely 
canon  they  might  easily  think  he  had  fled  and 
come  in  boldly  —  but  somehow  nothing  came 
out  as  he  had  expected.  He  slept  on  the 
matter,  and  woke  again  to  that  peculiar  hushed 
silence.  What  was  it  that  he  missed?  His 
horses  were  safe  in  their  pole  corral;  Old 
Funny-face  and  her  speckled  calf  were  still 
hanging  around  the  camp;  the  cattle  were 
along  the  creek  as  usual  —  ah,  yes!  It  was 
the  lowing  of  cows  against  the  drift-fence  bars  1 

[138] 


THE    TEXICAN 

With  a  vigorous  kick  he  hurled  his  blanket 
aside,  stamped  on  his  boots  and  ran,  only  stop- 
ping to  buckle  on  his  six-shooter.  At  the 
bars  he  paused  long  enough  to  see  that  there 
were  no  fresh  tracks  and  then  dashed  down  the 
pent-in  gorge  that  led  to  the  pasture  rim. 
The  shadow  of  the  high  cliffs  lay  across  the 
sunken  valley  like  a  pall,  but  there  were  no 
humped-up  cattle  sleeping  beneath  the  trees. 
It  was  time  for  them  to  be  out  and  feeding 
in  the  sun,  but  the  meadows  and  hillsides  were 
bare.  He  was  astounded  and  could  not  be- 
lieve his  eyes  —  the  pasture  was  empty  as  the 
desert.  Cursing  and  panting  Pecos  plunged 
madly  down  the  steep  trail  until  he  came  to 
the  first  water,  and  there  he  threw  down  his 
gun  and  swore.  Fresh  and  clean  on  the  mar- 
gin of  the  water-hole  was  the  track  of  a  shod 
horse,  pointing  toward  the  river!  It  was 
enough  —  Pecos  knew  that  he  was  cleaned! 
Indians  and  mountain  renegades  do  not  ride 
shod  horses,  and  if  Boone  Morgan  had  his 
cows  across  the  river  already  he  could  never 

[139] 


THE     TEXICAN 

get  them  back.  Another  thought  came  to 
Pecos,  and  he  scrambled  wildly  up  the  trail 
to  defend  his  remaining  herd,  but  there  was 
no  one  there  to  fight  him  —  his  upper  cattle 
were  safe.  Yet  how  long  would  it  take  to  get 
them,  in  order  to  finish  him  up?  All  Boone 
Morgan  and  Upton  had  to  do  was  to  wait 
until  he  went  down  to  the  store  for  provisions 
and  then  they  could  rake  his  upper  range  the 
same  way.  And  would  they  do  it?  Well, 
say!  Pecos  pondered  on  the  matter  for  a  day 
or  two,  keeping  mostly  behind  the  shelter  of 
some  rock,  and  the  sinister  import  of  Morgan's 
remarks  on  what  a  government  can  do  for  a 
certain  class  of  people  bore  in  upon  him 
heavily.  Undoubtedly  he  was  included  in 
that  class  of  undesirables  and  if  he  was  any 
reader  of  character  Boone  Morgan  was  just 
the  kind  of  a  man  to  make  him  a  lot  of  trouble. 
Upton  was  against  him  because  he  had  stolen 
his  U  cows,  and  Crit  was  against  him  worse 
because  he  had  given  him  the  cross  —  every 
cowman  on  the  range  would  be  against  him 

[140] 


THE    TEXICAN 

because  he  was  a  rustler.  Pecos  watched  the 
rim-rock  vindictively  after  that,  hoping  to  get 
a  chance  to  pot  some  meddlesome  cowman,  but 
no  inquisitive  head  was  poked  over.  At  last 
he  stole  up  the  ravine  one  morning  and  took  to 
the  high  ground  at  dawn.  There,  sure 
enough,  were  the  boot-marks  among  the  rocks 
and  he  noticed  with  a  vague  uneasiness  that 
some  one  had  been  watching  him  for  days  — 
watching  his  wind-hole,  too, —  probably  could 
have  shot  him  a  hundred  times,  but  now  the 
tracks  were  old.  A  hot  and  unreasonable  re- 
sentment rose  up  in  Pecos  at  the  implication. 
Nobody  cared  for  him  now,  even  to  the  extent 
of  watching  him!  He  could  crawl  into  his 
hole  and  die  now,  and  everybody  would  just 
laugh.  Well,  he  would  show  Mr.  Everybody 
what  kind  of  a  sport  he  was.  After  which 
circumlocuted  reasoning  Pecos  Dalhart,  the 
bad  man  from  Perro  Perdito  Canon,  being 
really  lonely  as  a  dog,  threw  the  saddle  on  his 
horse  and  hit  the  trail  for  the  Verde. 


CHAPTER  X 

STAMPEDED 

FOR  two  weeks  after  Pecos  Dalhart  dis- 
appeared into  the  wilderness  Angevine 
Thorne  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  time  sit- 
ting in  the  doorway  of  the  store  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  tiny  notch  where  the  Carrizo 
trail  cut  down  through  the  mesa's  rim.  Never, 
until  that  day  when  he  had  defied  Boone  Mor- 
gan, had  Angy  realized  the  heroic  devotion  of 
his  comrade  to  the  cause  of  the  revolution,  and 
his  heart  was  strong  to  help  him,  even  at  the 
risk  of  his  job.  If  Crit  would  only  have  let  him 
have  a  horse  he  would  have  gone  to  Lost  Dog 
Canon  long  ago,  to  carry  the  news  of  Morgan's 
raid  and  his  subsequent  visit  to  Verde  Crossing 
in  search  of  Pecos,  but  lacking  any  means  of 
travel  he  had  to  be  content  to  wait  and  watch 
the  trail.  The  two  weeks  passed  drearily  and 
still,  as  each  afternoon  wore  on,  Babe  seated 

[142] 


THE    T  E  X I  C  A  N 

himself  in  the  shade  of  the  brush  ramada  and 
speculated  upon  the  fate  of  Pecos.  But  in  this 
he  was  not  alone.  Early  in  the  game  Isaac 
Crittenden  had  noted  the  set  gaze  of  his 
faithless  roustabout,  and  though  he  still  rode 
out  with  his  cowboys,  he  also  managed  to 
keep  his  one  eye  cocked  on  the  eastern 
horizon,  for  he  had  interests  in  those  parts. 
There  were  a  hundred  head  of  Monkey- 
wrench  cattle  still  running  loose  in  Lost 
Dog  Canon,  and  that  would  make  good  pick- 
ings if  Pecos  went  over  the  road.  As  to  what 
particular  road  the  cattle-rustler  took,  whether 
to  the  pen  or  parts  unknown,  or  to  his  home 
on  high,  was  immaterial  to  Isaac  Crittenden, 
providing  always  that  he  heard  about  it  first. 
A  bunch  of  mavericks  without  an  owner  was 
likely  to  get  snapped  up  quick  in  those  parts 
—  John  Upton  might  turn  out  to  be  the  lucky 
man,  but  not  if  I.  C.  knew  himself,  and  he 
thought  he  did. 

It   is   a   long   day's   ride   from   Lost   Dog 
Canon  —  dragging  a  pack-animal  a  man  would 

[143] 


THE     TEXICAN 

get  in  about  sundown  —  and  as  the  days  wore 
on  Crittenden  made  it  a  point  to  ride  so  that 
he  could  cut  the  Carrizo  trail  between  four 
and  five.  This  was  a  desperate  game  that  he 
was  playing,  for  Pecos  Dalhart  was  undoubt- 
edly in  an  ugly  mood;  but  a  little  nerve  will 
carry  a  man  a  long  way  sometimes,  and  at  a 
pinch  Crit  could  shoot  a  gun  himself.  So  it 
happened  that  on  the  day  that  Pecos  rode  to 
the  edge  of  the  bench  and  sat  looking  down 
doubtfully  upon  the  distant  Verde  Crossing, 
he  heard  a  horse  pounding  in  on  his  right  and 
finally  made  out  Isaac  Crittenden,  in  wild  and 
unnecessary  pursuit  of  a  cow.  At  a  suitable 
distance  the  cowman  looked  up,  let  his  cow  go, 
and  ambled  cautiously  over  toward  his  former 
agent.  Holding  his  hands  in  sight  to  show 
that  his  intentions  were  pacific,  he  came  in 
closer  and  at  last  motioned  to  Pecos  to  come 
away  from  the  mesa  rim. 

"What 's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  called, 
frantically  repeating  his  signal.  "D'  you  want 
to  let  Boone  Morgan  see  you?" 

[144] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Boone  Morgan?"  repeated  Pecos,  reining 
in  his  horse.  "Why  —  what  — " 

"Haven't  you  heard  the  news?"  demanded 
Crittenden,  hectoringly.  " Boone  Morgan  took 
a  hundred  head  of  your  Monkey-wrench 
critters  down  the  Final  trail,  and  every 
dam'  one  of  'em  had  been  burnt  over  from 
a  U.  He  was  up  here  inquirin'  for  you  a 
day  or  two  ago." 

Their  eyes  met  and  Pecos  tried  to  pass  it 
off  in  bravado,  but  Grit  had  him  at  a  disad- 
vantage. "The  best  thing  you  can  do  is 
drift,"  he  observed,  meaningly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Pecos,  "I  got  a 
hundred  head  an'  more  of  cows  over  in  Lost 
Dog  Canon  yet.  What  '11  you  — " 

"They  ain't  worth  a  dam',"  cut  in  Crit- 
tenden, harshly. 

"No,  I  know  they  ain't,"  assented  the  cow- 
boy, patiently,  "not  to  me  —  but  to  a  man 
with  a  big  outfit  they  'd  be  worth  about  fifteen 
hundred  dollars." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  'em,"  snapped  Crit. 

10  [145] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"I  got  troubles  enough,  already,  without  hid- 
in'  out  from  Boone  Morgan." 

"I  '11  sell  you  that  brand  cheap,"  supplicated 
Pecos,  but  the  cowman  only  showed  his  teeth 
in  derision. 

"Wouldn't  take  'em  as  a  gift,"  he  said, 
shortly. 

"Well,  go  to  hell,  then!"  snarled  the  rustler, 
and  jerking  his  horse  around  he  started  to- 
ward Verde  Crossing. 

"Hey,  where  you  goin'?"  called  Crittenden, 
but  Pecos  did  not  reply.  "You  '11  git  into 
trouble,"  he  persisted,  following  anxiously 
after  him.  "Say,  do  you  want  to  break  into 
jail?" 

Pecos  halted  on  the  rim  of  the  mesa,  turned 
deliberately  about  and  faced  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  "do  you?" 

"Why,  what  d'  you  mean?"  demanded  the 
cowman,  leaving  off  his  blustering  and  coming 
nearer. 

"Well,  if  they  throw  me  in  I  '11  tell  all  I 
know,"  replied  Pecos.  "That's  all.  They 

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may  soak  me  for  the  Monkey-wrenches,  but 
I  '11  sure  git  you  on  them  Wine-glasses,  so  you 
better  not  try  any  funny  business.  What  I  'm 
lookin'  for  now  is  travellin'  expenses  —  I  'm 
not  so  stuck  on  this  country  that  I  couldn't 
be  induced  to  leave  it !" 

"No-o,"  sneered  the  cowman,  "I  don't 
reckon  you  are.  They  ain't  a  man  between 
Tonto  and  the  Gila  that  don't  know  you  for 
a  rustler  now.  More  'n  that,  you  've  defied 
the  officers  of  the  law.  No,  Mr.  Dalhart,"  he 
said,  a  cold  glint  coming  into  his  eye,  "I  won't 
give  you  a  dam'  cent  for  your  burnt-over  cat- 
tle and  if  you  take  my  advice  you  '11  hit  the 
high  places  for  New  Mexico." 

"Well,  I  won't  take  it,  then,"  replied  Pecos, 
sullenly.  "I  'm  goin'  down  to  the  Crossing 
to  see  Angy  and  —  hey!  there's  the  old  boy 
now,  flaggin'  me  from  the  store.  Well,  good- 
bye, old  Cock  Eye,  don't  worry  about  me  none, 
I  know  my  way  around!"  He  favored  his 
former  employer  with  a  flaunting  gesture  of 
farewell,  leaned  over  to  catch  the  forward 
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jump  of  his  horse,  and  went  scampering  down 
the  slope  and  across  the  level,  yipping  play- 
fully at  every  bound. 

"Well,  the  blank-blanked  fool!"  exclaimed 
Crittenden,  slapping  his  leg  viciously  with  his 
quirt  at  this  sudden  wrecking  of  his  hopes. 
"Well,  dam'  'im,  for  a  proper  eejit!"  He 
ground  his  teeth  in  vexation.  "W'y,  the 
crazy  dum-head!"  he  groaned,  as  the  cloud  of 
dust  receded.  "Boone  Morgan  is  shore  to 
come  back  to  the  Crossing  to-night  and  catch 
'im  in  the  store !  Him  and  that  booze-fightin' 
Angy  —  I  got  to  git  rid  of  him  —  but  what  in 
the  world  am  I  goin'  to  do?" 

From  his  station  on  the  edge  of  the  mesa  he 
could  see  the  dust  to  the  east  where  his  cowboys 
were  bringing  the  day's  beef -cut  down  to  the 
river  and  then,  far  up  toward  the  northern 
pass,  a  couple  of  horsemen  jogging  down  the 
Tonto  trail.  Boone  Morgan  rode  a  bay  horse, 
and  one  of  these  was  solid  color,  but  the  other 
rode  an  animal  that  showed  a  patch  of  white 
—  looked  kind  of  familiar,  too.  He  watched 

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them  until  they  showed  up  clear  against  a 
clay-bank  and  then,  making  sure  that  the  man 
on  the  bay  was  Morgan,  he  spurred  across  the 
flat  to  the  store.  Whatever  happened,  he 
must  be  sure  to  get  Pecos  out  of  town,  for 
Upton  had  been  talking  Wine-glass  to  Mor- 
gan, and  they  might  summon  him  for  a  witness. 

There  was  a  sound  of  clanking  glasses  in- 
side the  door  as  Crittenden  rode  up,  and  the 
voice  of  Angevine  Thorne,  flamboyantly  pro- 
claiming a  toast. 

"Then  here  's  to  the  revolution,"  he  ended 
up,  "and  a  pleasant  journey  to  you,  Cumrad, 
wherever  you  go!" 

They  drank,  and  Crit,  sitting  outside  on 
his  horse,  slapped  his  thigh  and  laughed 
silently.  "A  pleasant  journey,"  eh?  Well, 
let  it  go  at  that  and  he  would  put  up  the 
whiskey. 

"You  '11  be  sure  and  write  me  often,"  con- 
tinued Angy,  caressingly,  "and  I  '11  send  your 
Voice  of  Reason  to  you,  so  you  can  keep  up 
with  the  times." 

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"All  right,  Pardner,"  answered  Pecos,  "but 
say,  give  Marcelina  my  best  and  tell  her  I  '11 
be  back  in  the  spring.  Tell  'er  something 
real  nice  for  me,  Angy,  will  you?  Aw,  to  hell 
with  the  cows;  it'll  be  her  I  come  back  for  I 
Gittin'  a  little  too  warm  for  me  right  now, 
but  I  '11  be  here  when  she  comes  home  in  the 
spring.  Well,  let 's  take  another  drink  to  the 
sweetest  little  girl  that  ever  lived  and  then  I  '11 
be  on  my  way!"  The  glasses  clicked  again 
and  as  Angy  began  another  peroration  Old 
Crit  pulled  his  horse  around  with  an  oath  and 
started  up  the  road.  So  that  was  why  he  had 
been  turned  down  by  Marcelina  —  Pecos  was 
making  love  to  her  while  he  was  gone!  And 
he  'd  be  back  in  the  springtime,  eh?  Well,  not 
if  there  was  room  in  the  county  jail  and  Boone 
Morgan  would  take  him  down!  Hot  with  his 
new-made  scheme  for  revenge  he  spurred  his 
horse  to  a  gallop  and  was  just  swinging  around 
the  first  turn  in  the  trail  when  he  fetched  up 
face  to  face  with  Morgan  and  John  Upton! 

The  world  is  full  of  hatred  in  a  thousand 

[150] 


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forms  but  there  is  none  more  bitter  than  that 
between  two  men  who  have  seen  a  former 
friendship  turn  to  gall  and  wormwood.  So 
bitter  was  the  enmity  between  Upton  and  Old 
Crit  that  it  needed  but  the  time  and  occasion 
to  break  out  into  a  war.  Short,  freckle-faced, 
and  red-headed,  with  a  week's  growth  of 
stubby  beard  and  a  clear  green  eye,  John 
Upton  was  not  a  man  that  one  would  pick  for 
an  enemy,  and  the  single  swift  move  that  he 
made  toward  his  pistol  expressed  his  general 
sentiments  plainer  than  any  words.  As  for 
Crittenden,  his  emotions  were  too  badly  mixed 
to  lead  to  action,  but  the  one-eyed  glare  which 
he  conferred  upon  his  cow-stealing  rival  con- 
vinced Boone  Morgan  at  a  glance  that  Old 
Crit  was  dangerous. 

"I  'd  like  to  have  a  word  with  you,  Mr.  Crit- 
tenden," he  said,  taking  command  on  the  in- 
stant, "and  since  Mr.  Upton  is  interested  in 
this  matter  I  have  asked  him  to  come  along 
down.  We  won't  discuss  the  business  I  have 
in  hand  until  we  get  to  town,  but  now  that  I  've 

[151] 


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got  you  two  gentlemen  together  I  'd  like  to 
ask  you  to  be  a  little  more  careful  about  your 
branding.  My  deputies  reported  to  me  that 
on  the  last  round-up  calves  were  found  bearing 
a  different  iron  from  their  mothers  and  that 
mavericks  were  branded  on  sight,  anywhere  on 
the  open  range.  The  law  provides,  as  you 
know,  that  no  cow-brute  can  be  branded  any- 
where except  in  a  corral  or  at  a  round-up  and 
no  man  has  the  right  to  brand  any  maverick, 
orejano,  leppy,  or  sleeper  except  in  the  pres- 
ence and  with  the  consent  of  witnesses.  There 
have  been  certain  irregularities  up  here  in  the 
past,  as  is  to  be  expected  in  a  new  country, 
but  I  want  to  tell  you  right  now  that  in  the  fu- 
ture I  'm  going  to  hold  you  cowmen  to  the  law. 
I  was  elected  and  sworn  in  to  uphold  the 
peace  and  dignity  of  Geronimo  County,  so  if 
you  have  any  little  feuds  or  differences  to 
work  off,  I  '11  thank  you  to  do  it  outside 
my  jurisdiction." 

He  paused,  and  as  they  rode  down  the  broad 
trail  that  merged  into  Verde 's  main  street  the 

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rival  cattle  kings  exchanged  malignant  glances 
behind  his  broad  and  soldierly  back.  But  the 
sheriff's  eyes  were  to  the  fore  and  at  sight  of 
Pecos  Dalhart's  horse  tied  to  the  ground  in 
front  of  the  store  he  chuckled  to  himself. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  reaching  down  into 
his  inside  vest  pocket,  "I  'm  just  in  time  to  de- 
liver these  papers  —  or  am  I  mistaken  in 
thinking  that  that  hoss  yonder  belongs  to  Mr. 
Dalhart?"  He  glanced  across  at  Crittenden, 
who  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  scowled. 
"Quite  correct,  eh?  Well,  then,  if  you  gentle- 
men will  excuse  me  for  a  moment  I  '11  go  in 
and  see  Mr.  Dalhart." 

He  swung  down  from  his  horse  with  mili- 
tary precision  and  strode  toward  the  door, 
carrying  a  bulky  official  envelope  in  his  left 
hand  and  a  cigar  stump  in  his  right,  but  just 
as  he  crossed  the  threshold  Pecos  Dalhart, 
startled  by  his  voice,  dodged  out  the  back  way 
and  ran  around  the  store.  It  was  a  break  for 
liberty  with  him  and  he  took  no  thought  of 
the  cost.  Three  seconds  after  the  sheriff  en- 

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THE    TEXICAN 

tered  the  doorway  he  came  tearing  around  the 
corner,  heading  for  his  horse.  At  sight  of 
Upton  and  Old  Crit  he  paused  and  reached 
for  his  gun  —  for  one  tense  moment  they 
glared  at  each  other  —  then,  flinging  himself 
into  the  saddle  and  hugging  his  horse's  neck, 
Pecos  went  spurring  away  down  the  trail, 
reckless  of  everything  but  the  one  main  chance 
of  escape. 

"Hey!  Wait  a  minute!"  roared  Boone 
Morgan,  dashing  out  the  doorway  and  waving 
his  envelope.  "Come  back  heah,  you  pore  dam' 
fool!  Well,  don't  that  beat  the  devil?"  he  in- 
quired, turning  to  Crit  and  Upton.  ffl  did  n't 
have  no  warrant  for  him!  No!  I  jest  wanted 
— "  he  paused  and,  noticing  the  wolfish  eager- 
ness with  which  the  cowmen  awaited  his  final 
words,  he  suddenly  changed  his  mind.  "Well, 
what 's  the  difference,"  he  grumbled,  tucking 
the  big  envelope  back  into  his  pocket,  "he  '11 
keep."  He  followed  the  cloud  of  dust  that 
stood  for  Pecos  Dalhart  until  it  tore  up  over 
the  rim  of  the  mesa  and  disappeared,  and  a 

[154] 


THE    TEXICAN 

deep  and  subterranean  rumbling  in  his  chest 
paid  tribute  to  the  j  oke.  There  was  something 
like  a  thousand  dollars  in  that  big  official  en- 
velope—  the  balance  of  the  Monkey-wrench 
tax  sale  —  and  all  he  wanted  of  Pecos  was  his 
written  receipt  for  the  money. 


1155] 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    CATTLE   WAR 

WHEN  Pecos  Dalhart,  flying  from  his 
own  evil  conscience,  went  stampeding 
out  into  the  wilderness,  Isaac  Crittenden  and 
John  Upton  gazed  after  him  with  but  a  single 
thought  —  who  would  get  his  cattle?  With 
Pecos  out  of  the  way,  Crittenden  saw  a  clear 
field  ahead  of  him  in  the  Lost  Dog  country 
and  he  joined  Morgan  in  a  throaty  laugh,  but 
Upton  viewed  his  mad  flight  with  disappoint- 
ment and  chagrin. 

"Well,  laugh  then,  you  robber,"  he  snarled, 
turning  angrily  on  Crit,  "I  s'pose  it  tickles 
you  to  death  to  see  that  dam'  cow-thief  hit 
the  pike  —  he  might  talk  and  git  you  into 
trouble.  Say,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  protested, 
"ain't  you  takin'  quite  a  responsibility  onto 
yourself  to  let  that  man  git  away?  —  you  know 

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what  we  came  down  here  for,"  he  added,  jerk- 
ing his  head  toward  Crit. 

"Well,  what  did  you  come  down  here  for, 
you  little  sawed-off  runt?"  demanded  Critten- 
den,  belligerently.  "Hollerin'  around,  as 
usual,  Is'pose!" 

"I  come  down  here  to  find  out  about  them 
U  cows  of  mine  that  you  branded  into  a 
Wine-glass,"  retorted  Upton,  "but  you  and  the 
sheriff  here  seem  to  have  some  kind  of  an 
understandin',  lettin'  the  principal  witness  git 
away,  and  all  that,  so  I  reckon  I  better  pull." 

"Not  before  you  eat  them  words,  Mr.  Up- 
ton," cut  in  the  sheriff,  fiercely.  "I  don't  let 
no  man  make  insinuations  like  that  about  me 
without  callin'  on  him  to  retract  —  and  I  ain't 
never  been  disappointed  yet!" 

"Well,  you  jest  let  that  Dalhart  feller  git 
away,  didn't  you?"  demanded  Upton,  defi- 
antly. 

"I  certainly  did,  sir,"  replied  Boone  Mor- 
gan, with  ponderous  dignity,  "and  when  you 
git  ready  to  start  I  shall  accord  you  the  same 

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courtesy!  There  are  no  papers  out  for  Mr. 
Dalhart  and  unless  I  detect  him  in  some  breach 
of  law  or  receive  a  warrant  for  his  arrest  I  've 
got  no  right  to  lay  a  finger  on  him.  Now  you 
know  very  well  I  Ve  got  no  understanding 
with  Crittenden,  and  I  'm  goin*  to  ask  you  to 
apologize  for  that  statement  you  jest  made." 

"Well,  I  didn't  mean  no  offence,"  pro- 
tested the  cowman,  meekly,  "and  I  apologize, 
all  right  —  but  at  the  same  time  it  don't  seem 
right  to  let  that  dam'  cattle-rustler  git  away 
like  that." 

"No,"  responded  the  sheriff,  with  heavy  sar- 
casm, "it  don't.  But  bein'  as  he  's  gone  you 
cowmen  will  have  a  chance  to  show  what  good 
citizens  you  are.  I  don't  know  jest  what  Mr. 
Dalhart's  plans  are,  but  when  it  comes  around 
to  the  spring  round-up  I  want  to  find  every 
one  of  them  Monkey-wrench  cattle  thar! 
He  's  paid  his  taxes  in  full  and  he  's  entitled 
to  the  full  protection  of  the  law,  so  long  as  he 
keeps  the  peace.  You  hear  me  talking,  now; 
this  brand-burnin'  has  gone  far  enough." 

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"But  how  about  them  U  cows  I  lost?"  put  in 
Upton,  pertinently.  "Do  Crit  and  this  Pecos 
Dalhart  git  to  keep  all  the  critters  they  stole  ?" 

"Stole,  nothin'!"  retorted  Crittenden  hotly. 
"How  about  them  J  I  C  cows  of  yourn?" 

"You  make  a  business  of  burnin'  my  brand!" 
rejoined  Upton,  shaking  his  finger  threaten- 
ingly. "You  hire  men  to  rob  me  and  rake  my 
whole  upper  range !  I  'm  losin'  more  now 
than  I  did  when  the  Apaches  was  in  the  hills ; 
but  I  '11  git  even  with  you  yet,  you  dam', 
humped-back  old  cow-thief!" 

"Well,  I  see  you  gentlemen  are  goin'  to  keep 
on  quarrellin',"  observed  Boone  Morgan,  pick- 
ing up  his  bridle-rein,  "and  I  might  as  well  go 
on  about  my  business.  You  got  no  more 
respect  for  the  law,  either  one  of  you,  than  a 
common  cattle-rustler,  and  I  'm  goin'  to  quit 
wrastlin'  with  you,  right  now.  But  you  can 
cut  this  out  and  paste  it  in  your  hats  —  the  first 
man  that  steals  a  cow  in  Geronimo  County,  and 
I  catch  'im,  is  goin'  to  git  the  limit.  Angy, 
gimme  a  bag  of  crackers  and  some  of  that 
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jerked    beef --I'm    tired     of     hearin'     this 
yawp." 

So  genuine  was  his  disgust  that  Boone  Mor- 
gan plunged  through  the  cold  river  at  night- 
fall and  took  the  long  trail  for  Geronimo,  but 
the  memory  of  his  last  words  lingered  in  the 
minds  of  the  warring  cowmen  for  many  a  day, 
and  though PecosDalhart  was  known  to  be  over 
in  New  Mexico  somewhere  his  Monkey-wrench 
herd  remained  safe  in  Lost  Dog  Canon.  As 
for  the  sheriff,  having  abandoned  all  idea  of 
peace,  he  transacted  his  business  in  the  moun- 
tains by  deputy  and  sat  quiet  in  Geronimo, 
waiting  only  for  the  first  break  to  come  back 
and  make  his  word  good.  It  had  a  wonderful 
restraining  influence  upon  Crit  and  Upton, 
this  prolonged  and  ominous  absence,  but  as 
spring  came  on  and  the  new  crop  of  calves 
began  to  gambol  on  the  mesas,  the  old  spirit 
of  grab  rose  up  and  overleapt  the  dull  fear  of 
last  winter.  Once  more  both  Crit  and  Upton 
began  to  take  on  nervy  cowboys  —  men  who 
by  their  boasts  or  by  their  silence  let  it  be 
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known  that  they  were  game  —  and  the  cow- 
camp  at  Verde  Crossing  sheltered  gun-men 
from  all  over  the  Far  West.  From  the  Tonto 
country  there  came  rumors  that  Upton  was 
bringing  in  bad  men  from  Pleasant  Valley, 
fresh  from  the  bloody  combats  where  the  Gra- 
hams and  Tewkesburys  met.  Bill  Todhunter 
rode  in  when  the  round-up  was  well  begun  and 
looked  the  outfits  over  with  grave  unconcern, 
dropping  out  of  sight  on  the  trail  and  turning 
up  at  Geronimo  two  days  later  to  report  that 
all  was  well  in  Lost  Dog  Canon.  There  were 
no  deputy  sheriffs  in  disguise  on  this  round-up 
•. —  both  Crittenden  and  Upton  satisfied  them- 
selves of  that  early  in  the  day  —  and  as  the 
work  went  on  and  the  lust  for  spoils  grew  with 
each  branded  maverick,  the  war  spirit  crept  in 
and  grew  apace. 

Ike  Crittenden  was  the  first  to  renew  the 
feud  —  he  came  across  an  old  ICU  cow  and 
branded  her  to  ICU2.  One  of  Upton's  range 
riders  picked  her  up  after  the  branding  and 
Upton  promptly  altered  the  brand  on  an  1C 
11  [161] 


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cow,  to  break  even.  Then  came  the  grand 
coup  for  which  Crittenden  had  long  been  pre- 
paring. On  the  morning  after  Upton  took 
his  revenge,  the  whole  1C  outfit  —  forty 
cowboys  and  every  man  armed  —  went  gal- 
loping over  the  Carrizo  trail  to  Lost  Dog 
Canon.  By  noon  they  had  gathered  every 
animal  in  the  valley ;  at  night  they  camped  with 
the  herd  at  Carrizo  Springs ;  and  the  next  day 
every  Monkey-wrench  cow  was  safe  in  the 
Verde  corrals  with  her  Monkey-wrench  burnt 
to  a  Spectacle  ( 8 )  and  her  ears  chopped  down 
to  her  head.  The  ear-marks  having  been  al- 
tered once  already  there  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  make  the  new  marks  deeper  and  more  inclu- 
sive —  swallow-fork  the  left  and  crop  the 
right.  The  swallow-fork  was  deep  in  the  left, 
to  take  in  an  underbit  that  Pecos  had  cut,  and 
Old  Funny-face,  who  had  returned  home  with 
the  herd,  lost  the  fancy  Mexican  window  and 
anzuelo  in  her  right  ear  altogether,  along  with 
all  other  signs  of  a  former  ownership.  But 
even  then  the  artistic  knife-work  of  Jose  Gar- 

[162] 


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cia  was  not  allowed  to  perish  from  the  earth. 
As  Funny-face  rose  up  from  this  last  indignity 
and  menaced  the  perspiring  cowboys  with  her 
horns,  the  little  Garcia  children,  hanging  over 
the  fence,  dashed  out  through  the  dust  and 
turmoil  and  rescued  the  close-cropped  ears. 
Already,  in  spite  of  threats  and  admonitions, 
they  had  gathered  quite  a  collection  of  varie- 
gated crops  and  swallow- forks  to  serve  as  play- 
cows  in  their  toy  corral;  but  when  Marcelina 
came  upon  this  last  bloody  evidence  of  the 
despite  that  was  shown  her  lover  she  snatched 
the  ears  away  and  hid  them  in  the  thatched 
roof.  Old  Funny-face  was  Pecos's  cow  — 
she  knew  that  as  well  as  she  knew  the  red- 
spotted,  dun-colored  ears  that  had  adorned  her 
speckled  head.  Pecos  had  bought  Funny-face 
and  her  calf  from  her  father  for  thirty  dollars, 
to  keep  around  his  camp  to  milk,  and  now 
there  was  nothing  to  show  for  his  ownership 
but  the  ears.  But  perhaps  Pecos  would  be 
glad  even  for  them,  if  ever  he  came  back.  In 
a  letter  to  Babe  he  had  said  he  was  coming 

[163] 


THE     T  E  XI  CAN 

back,  now  that  the  sheriff  was  his  friend.  But 
Crit  —  ha-ah,  OF  Greet  - —  he  was  stealing  all 
of  Pecos's  cows,  and  the  sheriff  did  not  care! 
She  stood  by  a  post  of  the  brush  ramada  and 
scowled  at  him  as  he  raged  about  on  his  horse, 
cursing  and  shouting  and  waving  his  arms  and 
hurrying  his  men  along.  He  was  a  bad  man 
—  ahr,  how  she  hated  him  —  and  now  he  was 
such  a  thief! 

As  the  quick  work  of  branding  was  brought 
to  an  end  and  the  herd  driven  pell-mell  down 
the  river  and  into  the  heavy  willows,  the  Boss 
of  Verde  Crossing  sent  half  of  his  cowboys 
down  to  guard  them  and  began  to  clean  up  the 
corral.  First  he  put  out  the  fires  and  quenched 
the  hot  running-irons  and  rings;  then  he  re- 
moved the  branding  outfit,  dug  a  deep  hole  in 
the  river-bed  and  set  his  men  to  work  in  details, 
gathering  up  the  clipped  ears  and  swallow- 
forks  from  the  trampled  dirt  of  the  corral.  A 
single  ear  left  lying  would  be  a  record 
of  his  theft,  and  when  one  of  the  Garcia  ninos, 
by  an  ill-timed  dash  for  more  ears,  set  Crit 

[164] 


THE     TEXICAN 

upon  the  trail  of  their  play  cows  he  rushed  in 
and  ravished  all  their  toy  corrals,  even  though 
Marcelina  stood  by  the  ramada  and  curled  her 
lip  at  his  haste. 

"You  will  roh  even  the  cheeldren,  Meester 
Greet!"  she  remarked,  as  he  dumped  them  all 
into  his  hat. 

"Mind  your  own  business!"  he  answered, 
sharply,  and  scuttled  away  like  a  crab,  bear- 
ing his  plunder  with  him. 

"Ah,  you  ba-ad  man!"  observed  Marcelina, 
making  faces  at  his  bent  back.  "I  hope  Pay- 
cos  come  back  and  keel  you!" 

But  Isaac  Crittenden  was  not  worrying 
about  any  such  small  fry  as  Pecos  Dalhart. 
Boone  Morgan  and  John  Upton  were  the  men 
he  had  on  his  mind  and  it  was  about  time  for 
Upton  to  show  up.  A  solitary  horseman,  high 
up  on  the  shoulder  of  the  peaks,  had  watched 
their  departure  from  Carrizo  Springs  that 
morning,  and  if  Upton  had  not  known  before 
he  certainly  knew  very  well  now  that  the 
Monkey-wrench  brand  was  no  more.  As  for 

[165] 


THE     TEXICAN 

Boone  Morgan  —  well,  there  was  an  1C  cow 
in  the  corral,  altered  by  John  Upton  to  JIC, 
and  it  was  just  as  big  a  crime  to  steal  one  cow 
as  it  was  to  steal  a  hundred.  One  thing  was 
certain,  no  man  from  the  1C  outfit  would  call 
on  the  sheriff  for  aid;  and  if  Upton  was  the 
red-headed  terror  that  he  claimed  to  be,  the 
matter  would  be  settled  out  of  court. 

In  this  particular  incident  Mr.  Crittenden 
was  more  than  right.  The  matter  was  already 
adjudicated  by  range  law,  and  entirely  to  the 
satisfaction  of  Upton.  For  while  Cfit  was 
hustling  his  Monkey-wrench  herd  over  to 
Verde  Crossing,  the  U  outfit  —  also  forty 
strong  —  had  hopped  over  the  shoulder  of  the 
Peaks,  rounded  up  every  Wine-glass  cow  that 
they  could  gather,  and  were  at  that  moment 
busily  engaged  at  Carrizo  Springs  in  altering 
them  to  a  Circle-cross  ( ?  ) .  It  made  a  very 
pretty  brand  too;  but  after  studying  on  it  for 
a  while  and  recalling  his  past  experience  with 
Crit,  Upton  decided  to  play  safe  and  make  it 

[166] 


THE     TEXICAN 

a  double  cross  (?).  No  more  ICU2's  for 
John  Upton  —  he  had  been  there  once  —  and 
Circle  Double-cross  it  went  on  every  animal 
they  marked.  The  next  morning,  with  every 
cow  and  calf  well  in  hand,  the  U  boys  began 
to  drift  the  Circle  Double-cross  herd  back  over 
the  mountain,  and  just  as  Crittenden  was  mar- 
shalling his  fighting  men  to  win  back  the 
ravished  stock  there  was  a  clatter  of  hoofs  down 
at  the  Crossing  and  Boone  Morgan  rode  into 
camp,  followed  by  a  posse  of  deputies. 

"Well,  what 's  the  trouble  up  here,  Mr.  Crit- 
tenden?" he  inquired,  glancing  with  stern  dis- 
pleasure at  the  armed  men  who  gathered  about 
their  chief.  "Is  there  an  Injun  uprisin'  or  have 
you  gone  on  the  warpath  yourse'f  ?" 

"You  jest  come  down  to  my  corral,"  spat 
back  Crittenden,  "and  I  '11  show  you  what 's 
the  matter!  That  low-lived  John  Upton  has 
been  burnin'  my  brand!"  He  led  the  way  at 
a  gallop  to  where  the  1C  cow  that  had  been  al- 
tered to  JIC  was  tied  by  the  horns  to  a  post. 

[167] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"You  see  that  brand?"  he  inquired,  "well,  that 
was  made  three  days  ago  by  John  Upton  — 
you  can  see  the  J  is  still  raw." 

"Umph!"  grunted  the  sheriff,  after  a  care- 
ful scrutiny  of  the  brand,  "did  anybody  see  him 
do  it?" 

"No,  but  he  done  it,  all  right!" 

"Would  you  swear  to  it?  Can  you  prove 
it?  How  do  you  know  somebody  else  didn't 
do  it?" 

"No,  I  can't  swear  to  it  —  and  I  can't  prove 
it,  neither  —  but  one  of  my  boys  picked  that 
cow  up  three  days  ago  right  in  the  track  of 
Upton's  outfit,  and,  knowin'  the  little  whelp  as 
I  do,  I  don't  need  no  lawyer's  testimony  to 
make  a  case!" 

"Well,  I  do,"  replied  Boone  Morgan,  reso- 
lutely, "and  I  don't  want  this  to  go  any  fur- 
ther until  I  get  the  facts !  What  you  goin'  to 
do  with  all  those  two-gun  cowboys?" 

"I  'm  goin'  to  take  over  the  mesa  after  John 
Upton  and  his  dam',  cow-stealin'  outfit,"  cried 
Crittenden,  vehemently,  "and  if  you  're  lookin' 

[168] 


THE     TEXICAN 

for  legal  evidence,  he  went  out  of  Carrizo 
Springs  this  mornin'  drivin'  nigh  onto  two 
hundred  head  of  Wine-glass  cows,  as  one  of 
my  boys  jest  told  me.  Law,  nothin'  I"  shouted 
the  cowman,  recklessly.  "I  ain't  goin'  to  sit 
around  here,  twiddlin'  my  fingers,  and  waitin' 
for  papers  and  evidence!  What  I  want  is 
action!" 

"Well,  you  '11  get  it,  all  right,"  replied  Mor- 
gan, "and  dam'  quick,  too,  if  you  think  you 
can  run  it  over  me !  I  want  you  to  understand, 
Mr.  Crittenden,  that  I  am  the  sheriff  of  this 
county,  and  the  first  break  you  make  to  go 
after  John  Upton  I  '11  send  you  down  to  Ge- 
ronimo  with  the  nippers  on,  to  answer  for  re- 
sisting an  officer!  Now  as  for  these  men  of 
yours,  I  give  every  one  of  'em  notice,  here  and 
now,  that  I  want  this  racket  to  stop,  and  the 
first  man  that  goes  up  against  me  will  wind  up 
in  the  county  jail.  Bill,"  he  continued,  turn- 
ing to  his  trusted  deputy,  "I  leave  you  in 
charge  of  this  layout  while  I  go  after  John 
Upton.  Keep  the  whole  outfit  in  camp  until 

[169] 


THE     TEXICAN 

I  come  back,  if  you  have  to  kill  'em.     I  Ve  got 
enough  of  this." 

He  rode  down  to  the  store  with  his  posse, 
bought  a  feed  of  grain  for  his  horses  and 
provisions  for  his  men,  and  half  an  hour 
afterward  went  galloping  out  the  Car- 
rizo  trail,  his  keen  eye  scanning  the  distant 
ridges  and  reading  the  desert  signs  like  a  book. 
It  did  not  take  an  Indian  trailer  to  interpret 
the  deep-trampled  record  of  that  path.  Two 
days  before  a  big  herd  of  cows  and  calves  had 
come  into  Verde  Crossing  from  Carrizo,  driven 
by  many  shod  horses  and  hustled  along  in  a 
hurry.  As  he  approached  Carrizo  fresher 
tracks  cut  across  the  old  signs,  the  tracks  of 
cows  and  calves  fleeing  from  scampering 
ponies,  and  at  the  Springs  the  fresh  signs 
closed  in  and  trampled  out  all  evidence  of  the 
old  drive.  It  was  the  last  page  of  the  story, 
written  indelibly  in  the  sandy  earth.  On  the 
open  parada  ground  the  cropped  ears  had  all 
been  gathered,  but  the  bruised  bushes,  the 
blood  and  signs  of  struggle  told  the  plain  story 

[170] 


THE     TEXICAN 

of  Upton's  branding,  just  as  the  vacancy  of 
the  landscape  and  the  long  trail  leading  to  the 
north  spelled  the  material  facts  of  the  drama. 
The  Wine-glass  cows  that  used  to  be  about 
Carrizo  Springs  were  gone  —  John  Upton  had 
driven  them  north.  But  why?  The  answer 
lay  beyond  Carrizo  Springs,  where  the  white 
trail  leads  down  from  Lost  Dog  Canon. 
There  the  trampled  tracks  that  led  into  Verde 
Crossing  stood  out  plain  again  in  the  dust  — 
three  days  old  and  pressed  on  by  hurrying 
horses.  If  the  law  could  accept  the  record  of 
Nature's  outspread  book  Crit  and  Upton  were 
condemned  already,  the  one  for  stealing  Pecos 
Dalhart's  herd,  the  other  for  branding  over  the 
Wine-glasses.  But  the  law  demands  more 
than  that.  It  demands  evidence  that  a  lawyer 
can  read;  the  sworn  testimony  of  honest  and 
unprejudiced  witnesses;  the  identification  of 
men,  brands,  and  cows,  proved  beyond  a  doubt ; 
and  all  this  in  a  country  where  all  cows  look 
alike,  all  witnesses  are  partisans,  and  an  honest 
man  is  the  noblest  work  of  God.  Boone  Mor- 

[171] 


THE     TEXICAN 

gan  took  up  the  long  trail  to  the  north  with 
fire  in  his  eye,  and  he  rode  furiously,  as  was 
his  duty,  but  deep  down  in  his  heart  he  knew 
he  was  after  the  wrong  man,  and  would  not 
even  get  him. 


[172] 


CHAPTER  XII 

MOUNTAIN  LAW 

AS  the  sheriff's  posse  spurred  their  tired 
horses  up  the  long  slope  of  the  rocky 
mountain  and  down  into  the  rough  country  be- 
yond, the  trail  grew  fresher  with  every  hour, 
until  the  blood  from  mutilated  ears  showed 
wet  in  the  trampled  dirt.  But  as  the  herd 
made  its  way  into  the  broken  ground  the  heavy 
trail  split  up  and  divided;  at  each  fork  of  the 
canon  a  bunch  was  cut  off  from  the  drag  of 
the  herd  and  drifted  by  a  hand  or  two  down 
onto  the  lower  range,  and  when  at  last  the  trail 
broke  out  into  the  open  country  again  the 
posse  was  following  the  tracks  of  only  three 
men  and  twenty  or  thirty  cows.  Then  they 
picked  up  a  stray,  burned  clean  into  a  Circle- 
Double-cross  and  freshly  ear-marked,  and 
after  that  the  remnant  of  the  band,  standing 
wearily  by  a  water-hole.  Every  one  of  them 

[173] 


THE     TEXICAN 

had  been  freshly  branded  with  a  hot  iron  — 
no  hair-brand  or  attempt  at  burning  through 
a  sack  —  and  half  of  their  ears  were  bloody 
from  being  torn  in  the  brush;  but  there  were 
no  cowboys  loitering  near,  waiting  to  be 
caught  with  the  goods.  The  horse-tracks  still 
led  on  until  at  last  they  scattered  out  and 
mounted  the  neighboring  ridges.  But  if  the 
trail  was  lost  there  were  other  signs  to  lead 
Morgan  on  his  way.  The  sun  was  hanging 
low  now,  and  their  horses  were  jaded  from 
hard  riding,  but  at  the  familiar  bellowing  of 
a  cow-herd  they  pricked  up  their  ears  and 
forged  ahead,  The  valley  opened  out  sud- 
denly before  them  and  there  on  their  regular 
parada  grounds  was  the  entire  U  outfit,  hold- 
ing a  big  herd  and  cutting,  roping,  and  brand- 
ing by  days'  works.  Innocence  and  industry 
were  the  twin  watchwords  in  that  aggregation 
—  they  were  too  busy  even  to  look  up  —  and 
when  Boone  Morgan  saw  the  game  he  rode 
past  them  without  speaking  and  tackled  the 
cook  for  supper. 

[174] 


THE    TEXICAN 

"Boys  are  workin'  kinder  late  to-night,  ain't 
they?"  he  observed,  filling  his  plate  from  the 
Dutch  ovens. 

"Sure  are,"  answered  the  cook,  sententiously. 
He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  star  on  a  dep- 
uty's vest,  and  his  orders  were  not  to  talk. 

"Can't  even  stop  to  eat,  hey?"  continued  the 
sheriff,  nodding  at  an  ovenful  of  cold  biscuits 
that  had  been  wastefully  thrown  in  the  dirt. 
"Well,  that 's  a  pity,  too,  because  you  sure  do 
make  good  bread.  But  a  sour-dough  biscuit 
ain't  never  no  good  unless  it 's  eaten  fresh." 

"No,"  grumbled  the  cook,  taken  off  his 
guard,  "and  ef  they  's  anything  I  do  despise 
it  is  to  cook  up  a  good  oven  of  bread  and  then 
have  it  spile  thataway." 

"Well,  we  're  certainly  appreciatin'  this 
batch,"  remarked  Morgan,  glancing  genially 
around  at  his  busy  men.  "The  boys  bein'  away 
yesterday  kind  of  threw  you  out,  I  reckon." 

"Thet  's  right,"  agreed  the  cook,  oblivious 
of  his  intent,  "I  hed  a  big  kittle  of  beans  spile 
on  me,  too." 

[175] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"They  '11  sure  be  hungry  when  they  do  hit 
camp,"  said  the  sheriff,  continuing  his  lead, 
"livin'  on  cold  grub  that  way.  Hello,"  he  ex- 
claimed, looking  up  as  John  Upton  came  hur- 
rying in,  "here  comes  Mr.  Upton  now  — 
ganted  down  to  a  shadow." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  replied  Upton,  guard- 
edly, "b'lieve  I  could  eat  a  little,  though." 

"Well,  I  reckon  you  ought  to,"  said  Mor- 
gan, "after  goin'  two  days  on  cold  grub." 

"Cold  grub!"  repeated  the  cowman,  glanc- 
ing at  the  cook. 

"Why,  sure.  And  that 's  a  long,  hard  ride 
over  to  Carrizo,  too."  The  sheriff  took  a  big 
mouthful  and  waited. 

"What  in  hell  you  talkin'  about?"  demanded 
the  cowman,  sullenly. 

"Why,  was  n't  you  over  to  Carrizo  yester- 
day?" 

"Nope." 

"And  never  eat  no  cold  grub?"  inquired 
the  sheriff,  gazing  quizzically  toward  Joe,  the 
cook. 

[176] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Dam5  yore  heart,  Joe!"  burst  out  Upton, 
looking  daggers  at  the  startled  pot-tender, 
"have  you  been  blabbin'  already?" 

"That'll  be  all,  Mr.  Upton,"  said  Boone 
Morgan,  quietly,  "I  'm  up  here  lookin'  for  the 
owner  of  this  new  Circle  Double-cross  brand. 
Is  that  your  iron?  It  is?  Well,  I  '11  have  to 
ask  you  to  go  back  with  me  to-morrow  and  ex- 
plain where  them  cows  come  from." 

"Well,  by  the  holy  —  jumpin'— "  The  cow- 
man paused  in  his  wrath  and  fixed  his  fiery  eyes 
on  Boone  Morgan.  "Did  Ike  Crittenden  put 
you  up  to  this?"  he  demanded,  and  taking  si- 
lence for  consent  he  went  off  into  a  frenzy  of  in- 
dignation. "Well,  what  you  chasin'  me  for?" 
he  yelled,  choking  with  exasperation.  "Old 
Crit  goes  over  into  Lost  Dog  and  runs  off 
every  dam'  one  of  them  Monkey-wrench  cows, 
and  you  come  right  through  his  camp  and 
jump  me!  They  was  n't  a  critter  in  Lost  Dog 
that  had  n't  been  burnt  over  my  U,  and  you 
know  it ;  but  ump-um  —  Crit 's  a  friend  of 

mine  —  never  make  him  any  trouble  —  go  over 
12  [177] 


THE    TEXICAN 

and  tackle  Upton  —  he's  a  Tonto  County; 
man!" 

The  sheriff  listened  to  this  tirade  with  a  tol- 
erant smile,  feeding  himself  liberally  the  while. 
He  had  long  ago  learned  that  the  world's  sup- 
ply of  self-righteousness  is  not  held  in  monop- 
oly by  the  truly  good  —  also  that  every  horse 
must  go  to  the  length  of  his  picket  rope  before 
he  will  stop  and  eat.  But  when  the  fireworks 
were  over  he  remarked  by  way  of  conversation, 
"Crit  's  got  one  of  your  JIG  cows  down  there 
in  his  corral  —  a  red  three,  bald-faced  and 
kind  of  spotted  on  the  shoulders.  Looks  like  it 
had  been  branded  lately." 

"Yes,  an'  I  've  got  one  of  his  ICU2's  down 
in  my  corral,"  retorted  Upton,  "and  it  sure  has 
been  branded  lately  —  you  could  smell  the 
burnt  hair  when  I  picked  it  up  five  days  ago. 
They  ain't  a  man  in  my  outfit  that  don't  know 
that  old  cow  for  an  ICU,  too." 

"Um,"  commented  Morgan,  "you  think  he 
stole  it,  hey?" 

"I  know  it!"  replied  Upton,  with  decision. 
[178] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"You  can  see  her  yoreself,  down  in  my  head- 
quarters corral,  and  I  picked  her  up  in  the 
track  of  Crit's  round-up." 

"Well,  you  better  swear  out  a  warrant,  then, 
and  we  '11  take  the  cow  down  for  evidence. 
You  were  hintin'  that  I  'm  standin'  in  with 
Crittenden,  but  jest  swear  to  a  complaint  and 
see  how  quick  I  '11  serve  the  papers." 

For  a  moment  the  cowman  cocked  his  head 
and  regarded  him  shrewdly  —  then  he  shook 
his  head.  "I  Ve  got  too  much  loose  stock  run- 
nin'  on  his  range,"  he  said. 

"I  '11  protect  your  property,"  urged  the 
sheriff.  "Come  on,  now  —  quit  your  kickin' 
and  make  a  complaint." 

"Nope  —  too  dangerous!  I  can  take  care 
of  myself  in  the  hills,  but  if  them  Geronimo 
lawyers  ever  git  holt  of  me  I  'm  done  for. 
You  can  take  me  down  to-morrer,  if  you  want 
to,  but  I  'd  rather  stick  to  my  own  game." 

"All  right,"  said  the  sheriff,  "we  '11  see  what 
Crit  will  do." 

There  was  a  big  crowd  around  the  store 
[179] 


THE     TEXICAN 

at  Verde  Crossing  when  Boone  Morgan  and 
his  posse  rode  in,  and  at  sight  of  John  Upton 
by  his  side  there  was  a  general  craning  of  necks 
on  the  part  of  Crittenden's  cowboys.  This 
was  the  first  time  that  a  sheriff  had  attempted 
to  stop  the  lawless  raids  and  counter-raids  of 
these  two  cattle  kings  and  the  gun-men  looked 
upon  him  with  disfavor,  for  even  a  professional 
bad  man  is  jealous  of  his  job.  An  appeal  to 
the  courts  would  divert  their  extra  wages  into 
the  pockets  of  the  lawyers  —  it  would  dock 
their  pay  and  double  their  work,  and  to  a  man 
they  were  against  it.  Yet  here  came  Upton 
with  the  sheriff,  and  Bill  Todhunter  had  al- 
ready spotted  some  Spectacle  cows  that  had 
drifted  back  to  the  corrals.  As  for  Crit,  his 
nerve  was  good,  for  he  felt  the  fighting  cour- 
age of  his  men  behind  him,  and  he  went  out  to 
meet  his  ancient  enemy  with  a  taunting  sneer. 
"Well,  I  'm  glad  to  see  one  man  git  what 's 
comin'  to  him,"  he  observed,  taking  note  of 
Upton's  guard. 

[180] 


THE    TEXICAN 

"Yes,"  retorted  Upton,  caustically,  "and  if 
I  'd  jest  tell  a  half  of  what  I  know,  you  'd  be 
mixin'  'dobes  down  at  the  Pen." 

"Uhr!"  grunted  Crittenden,  turning  away 
in  scorn ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  took  his  cue 
from  the  words. 

"Well,  Mr.  Crittenden,"  began  Morgan, 
"here  's  the  man  you  wanted  so  bad.  Now  if 
you  '11  jest  step  into  the  store  and  fill  out  this 
complaint  — " 

"Nothin'  like  that  —  nothin'  like  that!"  pro- 
tested the  Verde  Boss,  holding  up  his  hand. 
"I  never  said  I  wanted  him  arrested!" 

"No,  but  you  took  me  down  and  showed  me 
that  JIC  cow  and  said  he  stole  it,  did  n't  you? 
And  you  complained  to  me  that  he  was  in  the 
act  of  runnin'  off  your  Wine-glass  cows,  did  n't 
you?  Well,  that 's  the  same  thing,  when 
you  're  talkin'  to  an  officer." 

"Well,  it  may  be  all  the  same,  but  I  don't 
want  'im  arrested.  That  ain't  the  way  I  do 
business." 

[181] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Oh,  it  ain't,  hey?  Well,  what  is  your  way 
of  doin'  business?" 

"First  principle  is  never  to  holler  for  help," 
replied  Crittenden,  grimly.  "I  know  dam'  well 
that  little  cuss  over  there  burnt  my  1C  cow  and 
run  off  all  my  Wine-glasses  —  but  I  can't 
prove  nothin'  before  the  law,  so  you  might  as 
well  turn  'im  loose.  Oh,  you  don't  need  to 
laugh,  you  little,  sawed-off  runt!"  he  yelled, 
addressing  himself  to  Upton,  "I  'm  jest 
keepin'  you  out  of  jail  so  's  I  can  git  at  you 
myself!  I'll—" 

"Aw,  shut  up,"  growled  the  sheriff,  brush- 
ing roughly  past  him.  "Come  on,  boys,  let 's 
get  out  of  this  before  they  holler  their  heads 
off."  He  swung  angrily  up  on  his  horse, 
jerked  its  head  toward  the  river  and  took  the 
crossing  in  silence,  leaving  the  rival  cattle 
kings  to  fight  it  out  together.  The  time  might 
come  when  one  or  the  other  of  them  would 
"holler  for  help,"  but  just  at  that  moment  the 
Verde  country  was  not  educated  up  to  the  law. 

[182] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WELCOME    HOME 

AFTER  the  war  of  words  was  over  and 
the  tumult  and  shouting  had  died  away, 
the  Angel  of  Peace,  which  had  been  flying 
high  of  late,  fluttered  down  and  hovered  low 
over  Verde  Crossing.  John  Upton  rode  back 
up  the  Tonto  trail  still  breathing  forth  hostile 
threats;  Crittenden  and  his  men  buckled  on 
their  extra  guns  and  rode  blithely  out  to  the 
adventure ;  and  the  store,  from  being  a  general 
hang-out  for  noisy  and  drunken  cowboys,  be- 
came once  more  a  shrine  to  Venus  and  a  temple 
of  the  Muse,  with  Babe  the  minstrel  and  Mar- 
celina  the  devotee.  "Billy  Veniro"  was  the 
theme  —  that  long,  sad  tale  of  the  far  fron- 
tier—  sung  in  tragic  tenor  to  a  breathless 
audience  of  one.  She  was  very  pretty,  the 
little  Marcelina,  now  that  she  had  become  a 

[183] 


THE     TEXICAN 

woman.  The  Sisters  had  taught  her  her  cate- 
chism and  something  more  —  the  grace  and 
sweetness  that  come  from  religious  adoration, 
and  the  quiet  of  the  cell.  The  great  world, 
too,  as  personated  by  Geronimo,  had  done  its 
share;  her  hair  was  done  up  in  dark  masses, 
her  long  skirt  swept  the  floor,  and  with  the 
added  dignity  of  a  train  her  womanhood  was 
complete.  She  sat  by  the  door  where  she 
could  watch  the  Tonto  trail  —  for  it  was  by 
that  road  that  Pecos  was  to  come  —  and  her 
melancholy  eyes  glowed  as  she  listened  to  the 
song. 

BILLY  VENIRO 

"Billy  Veniro  heard  them  say,  in  an  Arizona  town  one 

day, 
That  a  band  of  Apache  Indians  were  on  the  trail  of 

death. 
He  heard  them  tell  of  murder  done,  of  the  men  killed 

at  Rocky  Run. 
'There  is  danger  at  the  cow-ranch !'  Veniro  cried  beneath 

his  breath. 

"In  a  ranch  forty  miles,  in  a  little  place  that  lay 
In  a  green  and  shady  valley,  in  a  mighty  wilderness, 
Half  a  dozen  homes  were  there  and  in  one  a  maiden  fair 

[184] 


THE     TEXICAN 

Kelt  the  heart  of  Billy  Veniro  — Billy  Venire's  little 
Bess. 

"So  no  wonder  he  grew  pale,  when  he  heard  the  cowboy's 
tale  — 

Of  the  men  that  he  'd  seen  murdered  the  day  before  at 
Rocky  Run. 

'As  sure  as  there  is  a  God  above,  I  will  save  the  girl  I 
love. 

By  my  love  for  little  Bessie,  I  must  see  there  is  some- 
thing done !' 

"When  his  brave  resolve  was  made,  not  a  moment  more 

he  stayed. 
'Why,  my  man,'  his  comrades  told  him  when  they  heard 

his  daring  plan, 
'You  are  riding  straight  to  death!'     But  he  answered, 

'Hold  your  breath, 
I  may  never  reach  the  cow-ranch,  but  I  '11  do  the  best 

I  can.' 

"As  he  crossed  the  alkali  bed  all  his  thoughts  flew  on 

ahead 
To  the   little   band   at  the   cow-ranch,  thinking  not  of 

danger  near, 
With  his  quirt's  unceasing  whirl  and  the  jingle  of  his 

spurs 
Little  brown  Chapo  bore  the  cowboy  far  away  from  a 

far  frontier. 

"Lower  and  lower  sank  the  sun,  he  drew  reins  at  Rocky 

Run. 
'Here  those  men  met  death,  my  Chapo!'  and  he  stroked 

his  horse's  mane. 

[185] 


THE    TEXICAN 

'So  shall  those  we  go  to  warn,  ere  the  breaking  of  the 

morn, 
If  I   fail,  God  help  my  Bessie!'     And  he  started  out 

again. 

"Sharp  and  keen  the  rifle  shot  woke  the  echoes  of  the  spot. 
'I  am  wounded!'  cried  Veniro,  as  he  swayed  from  side 

to  side. 
'Where  there  is  life  there  is  always  hope,  onward  slowly 

I  will  lope. 
I  may  never  reach  the  cow-ranch  —  Bessie  dear   shall 

know  I  tried. 

"  'I  will  save  her  yet/  he  cried,  'Bessie  Lee  shall  know 

I  died 
For  her  sake!'     And  then  he  halted  in  the  shadow  of  a 

hill. 
From  a  branch  a  twig  he  broke,  and  he  dipped  his  pen 

of  oak 
In  the  warm  blood  that  spurted  from  the  wound  above 

his  heart. 

"From  his  chaps  he  took,  with  weak  hand,  a  little  book, 
Tore  a  blank  leaf  from  it,  saying,  'This  shall  be  my 

will/ 
He  arose  and  wrote:     'Too  late!     Apache  warriors  lay 

in  wait. 
Good-bye,  Bess,  God  bless  you,  darling!'     And  he  felt 

the  warm  blood  start. 

"And  he  made  his  message  fast  —  love's  first  letter  and 

its  last  — 
To  his  saddle  horn  he  tied  it,  while  his  lips  were  white 

with  pain. 

[186] 


THE     TEXICAN 

'Take  this  message,  if  not  me,  safe  to  little  Bess/  said 

he. 
Then  he  tied  himself  to  the  saddle  and  gave  his  horse  the 

rein. 

"Just  at  dusk  a  horse  of  brown,  wet  with  sweat,  came 

panting  down 
Through  the  little  lane  at  the  cow-ranch  and  stopped  at 

Bessie's  door. 
But  the  cowboy  was  asleep  and  his  slumbers  were  so 

deep 
That  little  Bess  could  not  awake  him,  if  she  were  to  try 

forevermore. 


"Now  you  have  heard  this  story  told,  by  the  young  and 

by  the  old, 
Way  down  there  at  the  cow-ranch  the  night  the  Apaches 

came. 
Heard  them  speak  of  the  bloody  fight,  how  the  chief  fell 

in  the  flight 
And  of  those  panic-stricken  warriors,  when  they  speak 

Venire's  name." 


"Ay,  los  Ah-paches!"  sighed  Marcelina, 
looking  wistfully  up  the  trail.  "No  ai  Ah- 
paches  in  mountains  now,  Babe?" 

"No,  Marcelina,"  soothed  Angy,  "all  gone 
now.  Soldiers  watch  'em  —  San  Carlos." 

"Que  malo,  los  Indies!"  shuddered  Marce- 

[187] 


THE     TEXICAN 

lina.     "I  am  afraid  —  quien  sabe?  —  who  can 
tell?  —  I  am  afraid  some  bad  men  shall  keel  - 
ah,  when  say  Pay-cos,  he  will  come?" 

'  'I  '11  come  a-runnin' —  watch  for  my  dust' 
—  that 's  all  he  wrote  when  I  told  him  you  was 
home.  Can't  you  see  no  dust  nor  nothin'?" 

"There  is  leetle  smoke,  like  camp-fire,  up  the 
valley  —  and  Creet's  vaqueros  come  home 
down  Tonto  trail.  Pretty  soon  sun-down  — 
nobody  come." 

Angevine  Thorne  stepped  through  the  door- 
way and,  shading  his  bloodshot  eyes  with  a 
grimy  hand,  gazed  long  at  the  column  of  thin 
smoke  against  the  northern  sky.  "Like  as  not 
some  one  is  brandin'  an  orejano"  he  said,  half 
to  himself.  "Might  even  be  Pecos,  makin'  a 
signal  fire.  Hey,  look  at  them  bloody  cow- 
boys, ridin'  in  on  it!  Look  at  'em  go  down 
that  arroyo,  will  you?  Say  —  I  hope  — " 

"Hope  what?" 

"Well,    I    hope   Pecos    don't   come    across 
none  of  them  Spectacle  cows  on  the  way  in  - 
that 's  all." 

1188] 


As  the  rout  went  by  Angy  saw  Pecos,  tied  to  his  horse, 
his  arms  bound  tight  to  his  sides 


THE    TEXICAN 

"Ahh,  Pay-cos  weel  be  mad  —  he  weel  — 
Miral  Look,  look!" 

A  furious  mob  of  horsemen  came  whirling 
down  the  trail,  crowding  about  a  central  ob- 
ject that  swayed  and  fought  in  their  midst; 
they  rushed  it  triumphantly  into  the  open, 
swinging  their  ropes  and  shouting,  and  as  the 
rout  went  by  Angy  saw  Pecos,  tied  to  his  horse, 
his  arms  bound  tight  to  his  sides  and  a  myriad 
of  tangled  reatas  jerking  him  about  in  his 
saddle. 

"Hang  the  cow-thief!"  howled  the  cowboys, 
circling  and  racing  back,  and  all  the  time  Pecos 
strained  and  tugged  to  get  one  hand  to  his 
gun.  Then  his  wild  eyes  fell  on  Marcelina  and 
he  paused;  she  held  out  her  hands,  and  Angy 
rushed  behind  the  bar  for  his  gun. 

"Here,  what  the  hell  you  mean?"  he  yelled, 
breaking  from  the  door.  "Quit  jerkin'  him 
around  like  that,  or  I  '11  knock  you  off  your 
horse!"  He  ran  straight  through  the  crowd, 
belting  every  horse  he  met  with  the  barrel  of 
his  forty-five,  until  he  brought  up  with  his 

[189] 


THE    TEXICAN 

back  to  Pecos  and  his  pistol  on  the  mob.  "Let 
go  that  rope,  you  —  !"  he  cried,  bringing  his 
six-shooter  to  a  point,  and  as  the  nearest  cow- 
boy threw  loose  and  backed  away  he  shifted 
his  gun  to  another.  "Throw  off  your  dally," 
he  commanded,  "and  you  too,  you  low-flung 
Missouri  hound!  Yes,  I  mean  you!"  he 
shouted,  as  Crit  still  held  his  turns.  "What 
right  have  you  got  to  drag  this  man  about? 
I  '11  shoot  the  flat  out  of  your  eye,  you  old 
dastard,  if  you  don't  let  go  that  rope!" 

Old  Crit  let  go,  but  he  stood  his  ground  with 
a  jealous  eye  on  his  prize. 

"Don't  you  tech  them  ropes,"  he  snarled 
back,  "or  I  '11  do  as  much  for  you.  I  caught 
him  in  the  act  of  stealin'  one  of  my  cows 
and—" 

"You  did  not!"  broke  in  Pecos,  leaning  back 
like  a  wing-broke  hawk  to  face  his  exultant 
foe,  "that  calf  was  mine  —  and  its  mother  to 
boot  —  and  you  go  and  burn  it  to  a  pair  of 
Spectacles!  Can't  a  man  vent  his  own  calf 
when  it 's  been  stole  on  'im  durin'  his  absence? 

[190] 


THE     TEXICAN 

Turn  me  loose,  you  one-eyed  cow-thief,  or  1 11 
have  yore  blood  for  this!" 

"You  don't  git  loose  from  me  —  not  till  the 
sheriff  comes  and  takes  you  to  the  jug.  Close 
in  here,  boys,  and  we  '11  tie  him  to  a  tree." 

"Not  while  I  'm  here!"  replied  Angy,  step- 
ping valiantly  to  the  front.  "They  don't  a 
man  lay  a  finger  on  'im,  except  over  my  dead 
body.  You  '11  have  to  kill  me  —  or  I  '11  pot 
Old  Crit  on  you,  in  spite  of  hell!"  He  threw 
down  on  his  boss  with  the  big  forty-five  and  at 
a  sign  from  Crit  the  cowboys  fell  back  and 
waited. 

"Now,  lookee  here,  Angy,"  began  Crittenden, 
peering  uneasily  past  the  gun,  "I  want  you 
to  keep  yore  hand  outer  this.  Accordin'  to 
law,  any  citizen  has  a  right  to  arrest  a  man 
caught  in  the  act  of  stealin'  and  I  claim  that 
feller  for  my  prisoner." 

"Well,  you  don't  git  'im,"  said  Angy, 
shortly.  "What 's  the  row,  Pecos  ?" 

Pecos  Dalhart,  still  leaning  back  like  a  crip- 
pled hawk  that  offers  beak  and  claws  to  the  foe, 

[191] 


THE     TEXICAN 

shifted  his  hateful  eyes  from  Crittenden  and 
fixed  them  on  his  friend. 

"I  was  ridin'  down  the  arroyo"  he  said,  "a 
while  ago,  when  I  came  across  my  old  milk 
cow  that  I  bought  of  Joe  Garcia."  He  paused 
and  gulped  with  rage.  "One  ear  was  cropped 
to  a  grub,"  he  cried,  "and  the  other  swallow- 
forked  to  'er  head  —  and  her  brand  was  fresh 
burnt  to  a  pair  of  hobbles  I  The  calf  carried 
the  same  brand  and  while  I  was  barring  them 
Spectacles  or  Hobbles,  or  whatever  you  call 
'em,  and  putting  a  proper  Monkey-wrench  in 
their  place,  this  pack  of  varmints  jumped  in 
and  roped  me  before  I  could  draw  a  gun, 
otherwise  they  would  be  some  dead." 

"Nothin'  of  the  kind!"  shouted  back  Critten- 
den. "You  never  bought  a  cow  in  your  life, 
and  you  know  it!  I  caught  you  in  the  act  of 
stealin'  my  Spectacle  calf  and  I  Ve  got  wit- 
nesses to  prove  it  —  ain't  that  so,  boys?" 

"Sure!"  chimed  the  1C  cowboys,  edging  in 
behind  their  boss. 

"And  I  demand  that  man  for  my  prisoner!" 

[192] 


THE     TEXICAN 

he  concluded,  though  pacifically,  for  Angy 
still  kept  his  bead. 

The  negotiations  for  the  custody  of  Pecos 
were  becoming  heated  when  there  was  a  fa- 
miliar clatter  at  the  ford  and  Bill  Todhunter 
rode  into  camp.  His  appearance  was  not  such 
an  accident  as  on  the  surface  appeared,  since 
he  had  been  scouting  around  the  purlieus  of 
Verde  Crossing  for  some  days  in  the  hope  of 
catching  Old  Crit  in  some  overt  act,  but  he 
put  a  good  face  on  it  and  took  charge  of  the 
prisoner  at  once.  Prisoners  were  the  fruits  of 
his  profession,  like  game  to  a  hunter  or  mav- 
ericks to  a  cowman,  and  he  pulled  the  gun 
out  of  Pecos's  holster  and  threw  loose  the 
tangled  ropes  with  the  calm  joy  of  a  man  who 
has  made  a  killing. 

"Caught  'im  in  the  act,  did  ye?"  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  Crittenden.  "Uh-huh  —  got  any  wit- 
nesses ?  All  right  —  where  's  the  calf?  Well, 
send  a  man  up  for  it,  and  bring  the  cow  down, 
too.  We  '11  have  a  preliminary  examination 
before  the  J.  P.  to-morrow  and  I  want  that 
13  [193] 


THE     TEXICAN 

cow  and  calf  for  evidence.  Now  come  on,  Mr. 
Dalhart,  and  remember  that  anything  you  say 
is  liable  to  be  used  against  ye." 

Denying  and  protesting,  Pecos  did  as  he 
was  bid;  and,  still  denying  his  guilt,  he  went 
before  the  magistrate  in  Geronimo.  Crit- 
tenden  was  there  with  his  cowboys;  the  calf 
was  there  with  his  barred  brand  and  bloody 
ears  —  and  as  the  examination  progressed 
Pecos  saw  the  meshes  of  a  mighty  net  closing 
relentlessly  in  upon  him.  In  vain  he  pro- 
tested that  the  calf  was  his  —  Isaac  Crittenden, 
the  cowman,  swore  that  the  animal  belonged 
to  him  and  his  cowboys  swore  to  it  after  him. 
In  vain  he  called  upon  Jose  Garcia  to  give  wit- 
ness to  the  sale  —  Joe  was  in  debt  to  the  Boss 
several  hundred  dollars  and  Old  Funny-face, 
the  cow,  was  being  hazed  across  the  range  by  a 
puncher  who  had  his  orders.  His  written  bill 
of  sale  was  lost,  the  mother  with  her  brands 
and  vents  was  gone,  and  a  score  of  witnesses 
against  him  swore  to  the  damning  fact  that  he 
had  been  taken  red-handed.  After  hearing  all 

[194] 


THE    TEXICAN 

the  evidence  the  Justice  of  the  Peace  consulted 
his  notes,  frowned,  and  held  the  defendant  for 
the  action  of  the  grand  jury.  The  witnesses 
filed  out,  the  court  adjourned,  and  a  represent- 
ative assemblage  of  cowmen  congratulated 
themselves,  as  law-abiding  citizens  of  Geron- 
imo  County,  that  there  was  one  less  rustler  in 
the  hills.  At  last,  after  holding  up  her  empty 
scales  for  years,  the  star-eyed  Goddess  of 
Justice  was  vindicated ;  the  mills  of  the  law  had 
a  proper  prisoner  to  work  upon  now  and 
though  they  were  likely  to  grind  a  little  slow  — 
the  grand  jury  had  just  adjourned  and  would 
not  be  convened  again  until  fall  —  they  were 
none  the  less  likely  to  be  sure.  Fortunately  for 
the  cause  of  good  government  the  iron  hand  of 
the  law  had  closed  down  upon  a  man  who  had 
neither  money,  friends,  nor  influence,  and 
everybody  agreed  that  he  should  be  made  an 
awful  example. 


[195] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  KANGAROO  COURT 

THERE  are  some  natures  so  stern  and 
rugged  that  they  lean  against  a  storm 
like  sturdy,  wind-nourished  pines,  throwing 
back  their  arms,  shaking  their  rough  heads, 
and  making  strength  from  the  elemental  strife. 
Of  such  an  enduring  breed  was  Pecos  Dai- 
hart  and  as  he  stood  before  the  judge,  square- 
jawed,  eagle-eyed,  with  his  powerful  shoulders 
thrown  back,  he  cursed  the  law  that  held  him 
more  than  the  men  who  had  sworn  him  into 
jail.  But  behind  that  law  stood  every  man 
of  the  commonwealth,  and  who  could  fight 
them  all,  lone-handed?  Lowering  his  head 
he  submitted,  as  in  ancient  days  the  conquered 
barbarians  bowed  to  the  Roman  yoke,  but 
there  was  rebellion  in  his  heart  and  he  resolved 
when  the  occasion  offered  to  make  his  dream 

[196] 


THE     TEXICAN 

of  the  revolution  a  waking  reality.  The 
deputy  who  led  him  over  to  jail  seemed  to 
sense  his  prisoner's  mood  and  left  him  strictly 
alone,  showing  the  way  in  silence  until  they 
entered  the  sheriff's  office. 

The  reception  room  to  the  suite  of  burglar- 
proof  apartments  familiarly  known  as  the 
Hotel  de  Morgan  was  a  spacious  place, 
luxuriously  furnished  with  lounging  chairs 
and  cuspidors  and  occupied  at  the  moment  by 
Boone  Morgan,  a  visiting  deputy,  three  old- 
timers,  and  a  newspaper  reporter.  The  walls 
were  decorated  with  a  galaxy  of  hard-looking 
pictures  labelled  "Escaped"  and  "Reward," 
many  of  which  had  written  across  their  face 
"Caught,"  and  some  "Killed";  there  was  a 
large  desk  in  the  corner,  a  clutter  of  daily 
papers  on  the  floor,  and  the  odor  of  good  cigars. 
Upon  the  arrival  of  Pecos  Dalhart  the  sheriff 
was  engaged  in  telling  a  story,  which  he  fin- 
ished. Then  he  turned  in  his  swivel-chair, 
sorted  out  a  pen  and  opened  a  big  book  on  the 
desk. 

[197] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Mr.  Dalhart,  I  believe,"  he  said,  smiling  a 
little  grimly. 

Pecos  grunted,  and  the  deputy  taking  the 
cue,  began  a  systematic  search  of  his  pockets. 

"Grand  larceny  —  held  for  the  grand  jury," 
he  supplemented,  and  the  sheriff  wrote  it 
down  in  the  book  thoughtfully. 

"Sorry  I  can't  give  you  the  bridal  chamber, 
Mr.  Dalhart,"  he  continued,  "but  it 's  oc- 
cupied by  a  check-raiser ;  and  I  would  n't  think 
of  puttin'  a  cowman  in  the  jag-cell  with  all 
them  sheep-herders  —  so  I  '11  have  to  give  you 
Number  Six,  on  the  first  floor  front.  Pretty 
close  quarters  there  now,  but  you  '11  have  all  the 
more  company  on  that  account,  and  I  '11  guar- 
antee the  boys  will  make  you  welcome."  He 
paused  and  winked  at  the  reporter,  who  sharp- 
ened a  pencil  and  laughed.  Boone  Morgan's 
Kangaroo  Court  was  a  local  institution  which 
gave  him  a  great  deal  of  josh  copy  in  the 
course  of  a  year  and  he  lit  a  cigar  and  waited 
to  observe  Pecos  Dalhart's  reception.  The 
kangaroo  alcalde  or  judge  was  a  horse-thief, 

[198] 


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the  sheriff  was  a  noted  strong-arm  man  from 
the  East,  the  district  attorney  was  an  ex- 
lawyer  taking  a  graduate  course  in  penology, 
and  altogether  they  made  a  very  taking 
dramatis  personce  for  little  knockdown  skits 
on  court-house  life. 

"Mr.  Pecos  Dalhart,  cowman  and  brand- 
expert  extraordinary,  is  down  from  the  Verde 
for  a  few  days  and  is  stopping  at  the  Hotel  de 
Morgan  pending  the  action  of  the  grand  jury 
in  regard  to  one  spotted  calf  alleged  to  have 
been  feloniously  and  unlawfully  taken  from 
Isaac  Crittenden,  the  cattle  king.  In  the 
absence  of  the  regular  reception  committee, 
Michael  Slattery,  the  kangaroo  sheriff,  con- 
ducted Mr.  Dalhart  before  his  honor  the 
alcalde  who  welcomed  him  in  a  neat  speech 
and  conferred  upon  him  the  freedom  of  the 
city.  After  a  delightful  half -hour  of  rough- 
house  the  entire  company  sat  down  to  a  choice 
collation  of  fruit  provided  by  the  generosity 
of  the  guest  of  honor." 

Something  like  that  would  go  very  well  and 
[199] 


THE     TEXICAN 

be  good  for  the  drinks  in  half  the  saloons  in 
town.  Only,  of  course,  he  must  not  forget  to 
put  in  a  little  puff  about  the  sheriff — "Sheriff 
Morgan  is  very  proud  of  the  excellent  order 
maintained  in  the  county  jail,"  or  something 
equally  acceptable. 

The  deputy  continued  his  search  of  Pecos 
Dalhart's  person,  piling  money,  letters,  jack- 
knife,  and  trinkets  upon  the  desk  and  feeling 
carefully  along  his  coat  lining  and  the  bulging 
legs  of  his  boots  —  but  Pecos  said  never  a 
word.  It  was  a  big  roll  of  bills  that  he  had 
brought  back  from  New  Mexico  —  five 
months'  pay  and  not  a  dollar  spent.  Some 
fellows  would  have  the  nerve  to  get  married  on 
that  much  money.  There  was  a  genuine 
eighteen-carat,  solitaire-diamond  engagement- 
ring  among  his  plunder,  too,  but  it  was  no 
good  to  him  now.  The  sheriff  examined  it 
curiously  while  he  was  counting  the  money 
and  sealing  the  whole  treasure  in  a  strong 
envelope. 

"I  'm   dam'   sorry   I   can't   give   you   that 

[200] 


THE     TEXICAN 

bridal  chamber,"  he  observed,  flashing  the 
diamond  and  glancing  quizzically  at  the  re- 
porter, and  Pecos  felt  the  hot  blood  leap  throb- 
bing to  his  brain. 

"You  go  to  hell,  will  you?"  he  growled,  and 
a  dangerous  light  came  into  his  eyes  as  he 
rolled  them  on  the  laughing  crowd. 

"Here,  here!"  chided  the  deputy,  grabbing 
him  roughly  by  the  arm,  and  with  the  gang 
following  closely  upon  his  heels  he  led  the  way 
to  the  cells.  A  rank  smell,  like  the  cagey 
reek  of  a  menagerie,  smote  their  nostrils  as 
they  passed  through  the  first  barred  door  and 
at  sight  of  another  prisoner  the  men  inside  the 
tanks  let  out  a  roar  of  joy  and  crowded  up  to 
the  bars.  It  was  the  flush  time  of  year,  when 
the  district  court  was  in  session,  and  the 
authors  of  six  months'  crime  and  disorder  were 
confined  within  that  narrow  space  awaiting 
the  pleasure  of  the  judge.  Some  there  were 
with  the  healthy  tan  of  the  sun  still  upon  their 
cheeks,  and  the  swarthy  sons  of  Mexico  showed 
no  tendency  to  prison  pallor,  but  most  of  the 

[201] 


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faces  were  white  and  tense,  with  obscenely 
staring  eyes  and  twitching  lips,  and  all  of  them 
were  weary  unto  death.  Like  wild  beasts 
that  see  a  victim  led  to  their  gate  they  stormed 
and  chattered  against  the  bars,  shouting 
strange  words  that  Pecos  could  not  under- 
stand until,  at  an  order  from  the  deputy,  they 
scuttled  back  to  their  cells. 

The  Geronimo  County  jail  was  a  massive 
structure  of  brick,  pierced  by  high  windows 
set  with  iron  gratings.  A  narrow  corridor  led 
around  the  sides,  separating  the  great  double- 
decked  steel  tanks  from  the  outer  wall,  and 
within  this  triumph  of  the  iron-master's  craft 
the  victims  of  the  law's  delay  swarmed  about 
like  chipmunks  in  a  cage.  Down  the  middle 
of  the  steel  enclosure  there  extended  a  long 
corridor  with  washrooms  at  the  end  and  on 
either  side  were  rows  of  cells,  with  narrow, 
inter-connected  gates  which  could  be  opened 
and  closed  from  without.  At  the  word  of 
command  each  prisoner  slipped  deftly  through 
his  door;  the  deputy  unlocked  an  iron  box, 

[202] 


THE     TEXICAN 

heaved  away  upon  a  lever,  and  with  a  resound- 
ing clang  all  the  gratings  on  one  side  came  to 
and  were  fastened  by  the  interlocking  rods. 
He  opened  a  box  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
entrance  and  clanged  those  doors  in  place,  thus 
locking  up  the  last  of  his  dangerous  charges 
and  leaving  the  corridor  empty.  Then,  pro- 
ducing another  key,  he  unlocked  the  great 
sliding  gate,  pulled  its  heavy  panels  ajar,  and 
shoved  Pecos  roughly  through  the  aperture. 
Once  more  the  gates  clashed  behind  him,  the 
interlocking  cell  doors  flew  open,  and  with  a 
whoop  the  uncaged  prisoners  stepped  forth 
and  viewed  their  victim. 

There  is  no  pretence  about  a  kangaroo 
court.  By  luck  and  good  conduct  a  citizen  of 
the  outer  world  may  entirely  escape  the  puni- 
tive hand  of  the  law,  but  every  man  who  en- 
tered the  Geronimo  County  jail  was  ipse  facto 
a  delinquent.  More  than  that,  he  was  fore- 
doomed to  conviction,  for  there  is  no  law  so 
merciless  as  that  of  the  law's  offenders.  The 
rulings  of  the  kangaroo  alcalde  are  influenced 

[203] 


THE     TEXICAN 

by  neither  pleadings  nor  precedents,  and  his 
tyranny  is  mitigated  only  by  the  murmurings 
of  his  constituents  and  the  physical  limitations 
of  his  strong  right  hand.  Unless  by  the 
heinousness  of  his  former  acts  he  has  placed 
himself  in  the  aristocracy  of  crime,  he  must  be 
prepared  to  defend  his  high  position  against 
all  comers;  and  as  the  insignia  of  his  office  he 
carries  a  strap,  with  the  heavy  end  of  which 
he  administers  summary  punishment  and  puts 
down  mutinies  and  revolts.  Pete  Monat  was 
the  doughty  alcalde  in  the  Geronimo  Bastile, 
and  he  ruled  with  an  iron  hand.  For  sheriff 
he  had  Michael  S lattery,  a  mere  yegg,  to  do 
the  dirty  work  and  hale  prisoners  before  the 
court.  The  district  attorney  was  John  Doe, 
a  fierce  argufier,  who  if  his  nerve  had  been 
equal  to  his  ambition  would  long  since  have 
usurped  the  alcalde's  place.  There  were  like- 
wise jail-lawyers  galore,  petty  grafters  who 
pitted  their  wits  against  the  prosecuting  at- 
torney in  a  brave  attempt  to  earn  a  fee,  or  at 

[204] 


THE     TEXICAN 

least  to  establish  a  factitious  claim  against  the 
defendant.  Out  they  surged,  sheriff,  lawyers, 
and  alcalde,  and  bore  down  on  Pecos  in  a  body, 
the  sheriff  to  arrest  him,  the  lawyers  to  get  his 
case,  and  the  alcalde  to  tip  his  chair  against 
the  grating,  where  the  reporter  could  see  all 
the  fun, —  and  try  the  case  in  style. 

"Fuzzy!"  thundered  the  yegg  sheriff,  laying 
a  heavy  hand  upon  Pecos's  shoulder,  "I  arrest 
youse  in  the  name  of  the  law!" 

"The  hell  you  say!"  exclaimed  Pecos,  back- 
ing off;  and  in  an  instant  the  hardened  jail- 
birds knew  that  they  had  a  "gay-cat."  Only 
Rubes  and  gay-cats  resisted  arrest  in  jail  — 
the  old-timers  stepped  up  promptly,  before 
the  sheriff  could  "give  them  the  roust"  from 
behind. 

"Yes,  an'  fer  breakin'  into  jail!"  hollered 
Slattery.  "Come  on  now  and  don't  make  me 
any  trouble  or  1 11  cop  youse  in  the  mush!" 

"Arraign  the  prisoner,"  shouted  the  alcalde 
pompously,  "bring  'im  up  hyar,  an'  ef  he  's 

[205] 


THE     TEXICAN 

half  as  bad  as  he  looks  he  '11  git  the  holy  limit. 
Wake  up  thar,  you,  an'  he'p  the  sheriff,  or  I  '11 
set  you  to  scrubbin'  floors." 

They  came  in  a  struggling  mass,  dominated 
by  the  tall  form  of  the  sheriff,  and  before 
Pecos  was  aware  of  his  destiny  he  was  hustled 
before  the  judge. 

"What  is  the  charge  against  this  mug?"  in- 
quired Pete  Monat,  slapping  his  strap  across 
his  knee  for  silence. 

"Breakin'  inter  jail,  Yer  Honor!"  responded 
the  sheriff,  bowing  and  touching  his  forelock. 

"Prisoner  at  the  bar,"  declaimed  the  alcalde, 
"you  are  charged  with  wilfully,  feloniously, 
an'  unlawfully  breakin'  inter  this  hyar  jail- 
do  you  plead  'Guilty'  or  'Not  guilty'?" 

"I  don't  plead,"  said  Pecos,  with  suspicious 
quiet. 

"  'Don't  plead'  is  the  same  as  'Not  guilty,'  " 
announced  the  judge,  "and  bein'  as  the  district 
attorney  is  such  a  long-winded  yap  I  '11  jest 
pull  off  this  examination  myse'f.  How  come 
you  're  hyar,  then,  you  low-browed  reperbate, 

[206] 


THE     TEXICAN 

ef  you  didn't  break  inter  jail?  Answer  me 
thet,  now,  an'  be  dam'  careful  to  say  'Yer 
Honor'  or  I  '11  soak  you  for  contempt  of 
court!" 

"Say,"  said  Pecos,  speaking  through  the 
gratings  to  Boone  Morgan,  "do  I  have  to  stand 
for  this?  I  do?  Well,  to  hell  with  such  a 
layout !  Here,  keep  your  hands  off  o'  me  now, 
or  somebody '11  git  badly  hurt!"  He  placed 
his  back  against  the  grating  and  menaced  the 
strong-armed  sheriff  with  a  tense  fist,  turning  a 
scornful  eye  upon  the  clamoring  judge. 

"Oyez!  Oyez!  Silence  in  the  court!"  bel- 
lowed Pete  Monat,  leaping  up  on  his  chair. 
"The  prisoner  is  found  guilty  and  sentenced 
to  pay  a  fine  of  one  dollar,  or  pack  out  the  slops 
for  a  week!  Mr.  Sheriff,  bring  'im  up,  an'  ef 
he  resists  we  '11  give  'im  thirty  slaps  with  this 
hyar!"  He  held  up  his  black  strap  threaten- 
ingly, but  Pecos  only  skinned  his  teeth  like  a 
wolf  that  is  caught  in  a  trap,  and  stood  at  bay. 

"I  'd  like  to  see  the  bunch  of  hobos  that  can 
man-handle  me!"  he  snarled,  making  a  pass 

[207] 


THE     TEXICAN 

at  the  sheriff.  "Hey,  bring  me  a  dollar!"  he 
commanded,  speaking  over  his  shoulder,  and 
as  the  deputy  went  back  to  the  office  to  get  one 
from  his  envelope  the  Roman  mob  fell  back 
and  ceased  its  clamoring.  The  dollar  was 
what  they  wanted.  There  was  always  a  Mex 
to  clean  up,  but  the  dollar  went  for  a  feed  — 
fruit,  candy,  good  things  to  eat  —  and  not 
every  man  who  entered  could  pay -his  fine.  At 
the  same  time  they  stood  off  a  little  from  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar,  for  he  had  a  bad  look  in 
his  eye.  The  kangaroo  sheriff,  standing  dis- 
creetly aloof,  noticed  it;  the  alcalde  also;  and 
in  the  premonitory  hush  that  ensued  even 
Boone  Morgan  began  to  read  the  signs  of 
trouble.  Next  to  his  dream  of  breaking  up 
the  cattle-stealing  business  in  the  mountains, 
the  Geronimo  sheriff  cherished  the  fond  hope 
of  building  up  a  kangaroo  court  that  would 
take  the  entire  problem  of  jail  discipline  off 
his  hands.  It  was  an  old  idea,  the  kangaroo 
court,  dimly  reminiscent  of  frontier  cow-camps 
but  smelling  more  of  hoboism,  yet  good  for 

[208] 


THE     TEXICAN 

law  and  order  if  the  right  men  were  in  power. 
Pete  Monat  was  a  terror  to  the  evil-doer, 
especially  if  he  was  a  Mex  or  darker,  and 
Boone  Morgan  stood  generously  behind  him, 
even  when  his  decisions  were  a  little  rank. 
Right  now  the  situation  looked  ominous  and 
as  Pecos  continued  to  spit  forth  his  venom, 
hissing  and  swelling  like  a  snake  at  every  ap- 
proach of  the  pack,  he  made  bold  to  interfere 
in  the  puppet  play. 

"Here,"  he  said,  passing  a  dollar  through 
the  bars,  "I  '11  advance  you  the  money  —  these 
fellows  won't  hurt  you  none." 

"Keep  your  dirty  dollar!"  snapped  Pecos, 
striking  it  away,  "I  got  money  of  my  own!" 

"Well,  you  don't  need  to  git  mad  about  it  — 
I  jest  wanted  to  help  you." 

"Yes,  you  help  me !  You  throw  me  into  jail 
for  some  thin'  I  never  done  and  then  bring  this 
bunch  of  town  boys  in  to  see  me  kangarooed. 
That  big  stiff  hain't  got  no  right  to  fine  me  a 
dollar,  an'  you  know  it,  but  I  '11  give  him  the 
money  all  right  —  you  jest  wait !"  He  grinned 

14  [209] 


THE     TEXICAN 

sardonically  at  Michael  Slattery,  straightened 
his  back  and  waited.  He  had  all  the  time  there 
was  —  the  grand  jury  did  not  meet  till  Fall, 
and  that  was  six  months  yet.  This  was  the 
law  they  talked  about  —  this  was  justice  —  to 
hold  a  man  six  months  before  he  came  to  trial! 
Shut  him  up  in  that  dark,  stinking  hole  and 
keep  him  until  he  was  broken!  Sure  —  and 
let  a  bunch  of  yeggs  spread-eagle  him  over  a 
chair  and  beat  him  with  a  strap !  For  a  year 
Pecos  had  been  at  war  with  society  and  never 
struck  a  blow  for  the  revolution.  But  it  was 
not  too  late.  In  turning  him  over  to  a  kan- 
garoo court  Boone  Morgan  had  added  the  last 
indignity  —  it  was  war  now,  and  war  to  the 
knife. 

The  deputy  returned  leisurely,  and  shoved 
a  dollar  bill  through  the  bars. 

"Much  obliged,"  said  Pecos,  and  he  spoke 
so  quietly  that  even  the  kangaroo  sheriff  was 
deceived.  "Here  's  your  dollar,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  hold  out  the  money,  "come  and  git  it." 
There  was  a  sinister  note  in  that  last  phrase, 

[210] 


THE     TEXICAN 

but  Slattery  did  not  catch  it.  He  was  a  tall, 
hulking  man,  heavy-handed  and  used  to  his 
own  way;  the  cattle-rustler  was  short  and 
broad,  like  a  stocky,  hard-rock  miner,  and  he 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  bars  as  if  he  were 
afraid.  "Come  and  git  it,"  he  said,  very 
quietly,  but  as  Mike  Slattery  reached  out  his 
hand  for  the  money  the  cowboy  grinned  and 
jerked  it  back.  Slattery  grabbed,  and  like  a 
flash  Pecos  put  over  a  blow  tHat  was  freighted 
with  sudden  death.  It  landed  behind  the 
yegg  sheriff's  massive  jaw,  threw  him  side- 
ways and  whirled  him  over;  then  the  thud  of 
the  blow  was  followed  by  a  thump  and  like  a 
boneless  carcass  he  piled  up  on  the  floor.  To 
a  man  a  few  removes  farther  from  the  ape  the 
thump  on  the  concrete  floor  would  have  re- 
sulted in  a  cracked  skull,  but  fortunately  for 
Slattery  hard  heads  and  evil  dispositions  gen- 
erally go  together,  and  he  was  safe  from  any- 
thing short  of  an  axe.  It  was  the  blow  under 
the  ear  that  had  jarred  his  brains  —  the  bump 
against  the  concrete  only  finished  the  job  up 

[211] 


THE     TEXICAN 

and  saved  him  from  something  worse.  With- 
out looking  to  see  where  his  victim  fell  Pecos 
Dalhart  leapt  vengefully  into  the  swarming 
crowd  of  prisoners,  knocking  them  right  and 
left  like  ten-pins  and  shouting  in  a  hoarse 
voice : 

"Come  an' —  huh  —  git  it !  Come  —  huh  — 
and  git  it!"  And  at  every  grunt  he  sent  home 
a  blow  that  laid  his  man  on  the  floor. 

"Back  to  your  cells!"  roared  Boone  Morgan, 
rattling  the  grating  like  a  lion  caged  away 
from  a  deadly  battle.  "Git  back  there  and  let 
me  have  a  chance!"  But  his  voice  was 
drowned  in  the  deep-voiced  challenge  of  Pecos, 
the  shrieks  of  trampled  Mexicans,  the  curses 
and  sound  of  blows.  Pandemonium  broke 
loose  and  in  the  general  uproar  all  semblance 
of  order  was  lost.  On  the  outside  of  the  bars 
a  pair  of  shouting  deputies  menaced  the  flying 
demon  of  discord  with  their  pistols,  calling  on 
him  to  stop ;  Boone  Morgan  tried  to  clear  the 
corridor  so  that  he  could  open  the  door;  but 
they  might  as  well  have  thundered  against  the 

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THE     TEXICAN 

wind,  for  Pecos  Dalhart  had  gone  hog  wild  and 
panic  lay  in  his  wake. 

"Yeee-pah!"  he  screamed,  as  the  way  cleared 
up  before  him.  "Hunt  your  holes,  you  prairie 
dogs,  or  I  '11  shore  deal  you  misery!  Out  of 
my  road,  you  dastards  —  I  'm  lookin'  for  that 
alcalde!"  He  fought  his  way  down  the  cor- 
ridor, leaving  his  mark  on  every  man  who  op- 
posed him,  and  Pete  Monat  came  half  way  to 
meet  him.  Pete  had  been  a  fighter  himself 
when  he  first  broke  into  the  Geronimo  jail 
and  the  confinement  had  not  thinned  his  sport- 
ing blood.  He  held  the  alcalde's  strap  behind 
him,  doubled  to  give  it  weight,  and  at  the  very 
moment  that  Pecos  came  lunging  in  he  laid 
it  across  his  cheek  with  a  resounding  whack. 
The  angry  blood  stood  out  along  the  scar  and 
before  Pecos  could  dodge  back  he  received  an- 
other welt  that  all  but  laid  him  low. 

"Hit  'im  again!  Smash  'im!  Fly  at  'im, 
Pete!"  yelled  the  crowd  without,  and  at  the 
appearance  of  a  leader  the  beaten  gang  of 
hobos  came  out  of  their  holes  like  bloodhounds. 

[213] 


THE    TEXICAN 

Pecos  heard  the  scuffle  of  feet  behind  him  and 
turned  to  meet  them.  The  fury  in  his  eye 
was  terrible,  but  he  was  panting,  and  he 
staggered  as  he  dodged  a  blow.  For  a  single 
moment  he  appraised  the  fighting  odds  against 
him  —  then  with  an  irresistible  rush  he  bat- 
tered his  way  past  the  alcalde  and  grabbed  the 
back  of  his  chair.  In  the  sudden  turmoil  and 
confusion  that  humble  throne  of  justice  had 
been  overlooked.  It  stood  against  the  grat- 
ing beyond  which  Boone  Morgan  and  his 
deputies  cheered  on  the  kangaroos,  and  as 
Pecos  whirled  it  in  the  air  their  shouting 
ceased. 

There  was  a  crash,  a  dull  thump,  and 
Pete  Monat  pitched  forward  with  his  throne 
hung  round  his  neck.  The  strap  which  had 
left  its  cruel  mark  on  Pecos  fell  to  the  floor  be- 
fore him,  and  Pecos,  dropping  the  broken  back 
of  the  chair,  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  The 
alcalde  lay  silent  now  beside  the  inert  body 
of  his  sheriff  and  a  great  hush  fell  upon  the 
prison  as  he  stood  over  them,  glaring  like  a 

[214] 


THE     TEXICAN 

lion  at  bay.  He  held  up  a  bruised  and  gory 
fist  and  opened  it  tauntingly. 

"Here  's  your  dollar,"  he  said,  waving  the 
bloody  bill  above  his  head,  "come  and  git  it, 
you  sons  of  goats!  You  don't  want  it,  hey? 
Well,  git  back  into  your  cells,  then  —  in  with 
you,  or  I  '11  lash  you  to  a  frazzle !"  They  went, 
and  as  the  interlocking  doors  clanged  behind 
them  Pecos  turned  to  Boone  Morgan  and 
laughed.  "That 's  what  I  think  of  your  Kan- 
garoo Court,"  he  said,  "and  your  own  dam' 
rotten  laws.  Here's  to  the  revolution!" 

He  flung  his  blood-red  arms  above  his  head 
and  laughed  again,  bitterly;  and  after  they 
had  carried  out  the  injured  he  paced  up  and 
down  the  corridor  all  night,  cursing  and  rav- 
ing against  the  law,  while  the  battered  inmates 
gazed  out  through  their  bars  or  nodded  in 
troubled  sleep.  It  was  the  revolution  —  no 
laws,  no  order,  no  government,  no  nothing! 
The  base  hirelings  of  the  law  had  thrown  him 
into  jail  —  all  right,  he  would  put  their  jail  on 
the  bum. 

[215] 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  REVOLUTION  IN  FACT 

OUTSIDE  of  the  kangarooing  of  Rubes, 
the  coming  and  going  of  prisoners, 
and  such  exceptional  entertainment  as  that 
put  up  by  Pecos  Dalhart  upon  his  initiation 
into  the  brotherhood,  there  were  only  two 
events  a  day  in  the  Geronimo  jail  —  break- 
fast and  dinner.  Breakfast,  as  with  the 
French,  was  served  late,  and  dinner  at  the 
hour  of  four.  On  account  of  the  caterer  be- 
ing otherwise  engaged  in  the  early  morning 
the  cafe-au-lait  in  bed  was  dispensed  with  and 
dejeuner  served  promptly  at  nine.  It  was  a 
hard-looking  aggregation  of  citizens  that  crept 
out  of  their  cells  at  the  clanging  of  the  inter- 
locking gates  and  there  was  not  a  man  among 
them  who  dared  look  Pecos  in  the  eye  as  they 
slunk  down  the  corridor  to  wash.  Battered 

[216] 


THE    TEXICAN 

in  body  and  cowed  in  spirit  they  glanced  up 
at  him  deprecatingly  as  he  stood  with  the  strap 
in  his  hand,  and  there  was  no  mercy  written  in 
the  cattle-rustler's  scowling  visage.  These 
were  the  men  who  would  have  put  their  heels 
in  his  face  if  he  had  gone  down  before  their 
rush  —  they  were  cowards  and  ran  in  packs, 
like  wolves.  They  were  grafters,  too;  the 
slinking,  servile  slaves  of  jail  alcaldes,  yegg 
sheriffs,  and  Boone  Morgan's  swaggering 
deputies.  More  than  that,  they  would  mob 
him  if  he  gave  them  half  a  chance.  So  he 
stood  silent,  watching  them,  man  after  man, 
and  there  was  not  one  who  could  look  him  in 
the  face. 

It  was  Bill  Todhunter  who  opened  the  gates 
that  morning  —  the  same  keen-eyed,  silent 
deputy  who  had  fetched  Pecos  down  from  the 
mountains  —  and  as  his  former  prisoner,  now 
transformed  into  the  stern  master  of  Geronimo 
jail,  came  near,  he  looked  him  over  gravely. 

"Feelin'  any  better?"  he  inquired. 

"Nope,"  scowled  Pecos,  and  there  the  matter 
[217] 


THE     TEXICAN 

dropped.  After  the  affair  of  the  night  be- 
fore he  had  expected  to  be  put  in  irons,  at 
least,  or  thrown  into  the  dungeon,  but  nobody 
seemed  to  be  worrying  about  him,  and  the 
prison  routine  went  on  as  usual.  The  drunks 
in  the  jag-cell  woke  up  and  began  to  wrangle; 
the  long-termers  in  the  deck  above  scuffled 
sullenly  around  over  the  resounding  boiler 
plate;  and  from  the  outer  office  they  could 
hear  the  cheerful  voices  of  old-timers  and  poli- 
ticians discussing  affairs  of  state.  A  long- 
term  trusty  came  clattering  down  the  iron 
stairs  and  passed  out  through  the  two  barred 
doors  to  work  up  an  appetite  for  breakfast  by 
mowing  the  court-house  lawn.  As  for  Pecos, 
he  was  used  to  having  his  breakfast  early  and 
his  Trojan  exertions  of  the  night  before  had 
left  him  gaunted,  though  he  carried  off  his 
stoic  part  bravely.  Nevertheless  he  showed  a 
more  than  human  interest  in  the  steel  front 
gate,  and  when  at  last,  just  as  the  clock  tolled 
nine,  it  swung  open,  admitting  the  Chinese 
restaurateur  who  contracted  for  their  meals, 

[218] 


THE     TEXICAN 

there  was  a  general  chorus  of  approval. 
Hung  Wo  was  the  name  of  this  caterer  to  the 
incarcerated,  and  he  looked  it;  but  though  his 
face  was  not  designed  for  a  laughing  picture 
his  shoulders  were  freighted  with  two  enor- 
mous cans  which  more  than  made  up  for  that. 
Without  a  word  to  any  one  he  lowered  the  cans 
to  the  floor,  jerked  off  the  covers,  and  began  to 
dish  up  on  the  prison  plates.  To  every  man 
he  gave  exactly  the  same  —  a  big  spoonful  of 
beans,  a  potato,  a  hunk  of  meat,  half  a  loaf  of 
bread,  and  a  piece  of  pie  —  served  with  the 
rapidity  of  an  automaton. 

Without  waiting  for  orders  the  prisoners  re- 
treated noisily  into  their  cells  and  waited,  the 
more  fastidious  shoving  sheets  of  newspaper 
through  the  small  openings  at  the  bottom  of 
their  doors  to  keep  their  plates  off  the  floor. 
But  here  again  there  was  trouble.  The  in- 
cessant hammering  of  pint  coffee  cups  em- 
phasized the  starved  impatience  of  the  inmates ; 
the  food  grew  cold  on  the  plates;  only  one 
thing  lay  in  the  way  of  the  belated  breakfast 
[219] 


THE    TEXICAN 

• —  Pecos  refused  to  go  into  a  cell.  Before  the 
fall  of  the  kangaroo  court  it  had  been  the 
privilege  and  prerogative  of  Mike  Slattery 
to  remain  in  the  corridor  and  assist  in  the  dis- 
tribution of  the  food,  but  Mike  was  in  the 
bridal  chamber  now  with  his  jowls  swathed  in 
cotton,  sucking  a  little  nourishment  through  a 
tube.  Pete  Monat  was  there  also,  his  head 
bandaged  to  the  limit  of  the  physician's  art, 
and  mourning  the  fate  which  had  left  him  such 
a  hard-looking  mug  on  the  eve  of  a  jury  trial. 
The  verdict  would  be  guilty,  that  was  a  cinch. 
But  at  least  Pete  was  able  to  eat  his  break- 
fast, whereas  there  were  about  forty  avid 
kangaroos  in  the  tanks  who  were  raising  their 
combined  voices  in  one  agonizing  appeal  for 
food.  It  was  a  desperate  situation,  but  Pecos, 
as  usual,  was  obdurate. 

"Let  the  Chink  come  in  —  I  won't  hurt 
'im!"  he  said;  but  Bill  Todhunter  shook  his 
head. 

"The  Chink  won't  come,"  he  said. 

[220] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Whassa  malla  Mike?"  inquired  Hung 
Wo  nervously.  "He  go  Yuma?" 

"No,  Charley,"  returned  Todhunter,  "last 
night  he  have  one  hell  of  a  big  fight  —  this 
man  break  his  jaw." 

"Whassa  malla  Pete?" 

"This  man  break  his  head  with  chair." 

"Ooo!"  breathed  Hung  Wo,  peering 
through  the  bars,  "me  no  go  in." 

"Well,  now,  you  see  what  you  git  for  your 
cussedness,"  observed  the  deputy  coldly. 
"The  Chink  won't  come  in  and  the  chances  are 
you  '11  starve  to  death ;  that  is,  providin'  them 
other  fellers  don't  beat  you  to  death  first,  for 
makin'  'em  lose  their  breakfast.  Feelin'  pretty 
cagey,  ain't  they?" 

They  were,  and  Pecos  realized  that  if  he 
didn't  square  himself  with  Hung  Wo  right 
away  and  get  him  to  feed  the  animals,  he 
would  have  a  bread  riot  on  his  hands  later  — 
and  besides,  he  was  hungry  himself.  So  he 
spoke  quickly  and  to  the  point. 

[221] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"What 's  the  matter,  Charley?"  he  expostu- 
lated, "you  'fraid  of  me?" 

"Me  no  likee!"  said  the  Chinaman  imper- 
sonally. 

"No,  of  course  not ;  but  here  —  lemme  tell 
you!  You  savvy  Pete  Monat  —  all  same 
alcalde,  eh?  .You  savvy  Mike  —  all  same  boss, 
hey  ?  Well,  last  night  me  lick  Pete  and  Mike. 
You  see  this  strap  ?  All  right ;  me  boss  now  — 
you  give  me  big  pie  every  day,  you  come  in!" 

"Me  no  got  big  pie  to-day,"  protested  Hung 
Wo  anxiously. 

"Oh,  that 's  all  right  —  me  takum  other  fel- 
ler's pie,  this  time  —  you  come  in!" 

"Allite!"  agreed  the  simple-minded  Orien- 
tal, and  when  the  iron  doors  rolled  apart  he 
entered  without  a  quiver.  Back  where  he 
came  from  a  bargain  is  a  bargain  and  it  is  a 
poor  boss  indeed  who  does  not  demand  his  rake- 
off.  The  day  was  won  and,  throwing  back 
his  head  imperiously,  Pecos  stalked  down  the 
line  of  cells  until  he  came  to  the  one  where  the 
inmates  were  making  the  most  noise. 

[222] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Here!"  he  said,  and  when  they  looked  up 
he  remarked:  "You  fellers  are  too  gay  to  suit 
me  —  I  '11  jest  dock  you  your  pieces  of  pie!" 
And  when  the  Chinaman  arrived  Pecos  care- 
fully lifted  the  pie  from  each  plate  and  piled 
all  up  on  his  own.  "This  '11  teach  you  to  keep 
your  mouths  shut!"  he  observed,  and  retiring 
to  the  iron  gates  he  squatted  down  on  his  heels 
and  ate  greedily. 

"Well,  the  son-of -a-gun,"  murmured  Bill  Tod- 
hunter,  as  he  took  notice  of  this  final  triumph, 
and  the  men  in  the  cells  became  as  quiet  as  a 
cage  of  whip-broke  beasts  when  the  lion  tamer 
stands  in  their  midst.  As  Pecos  Dalhart 
drank  his  second  cup  of  coffee  and  finished  up 
the  last  slab  of  pie  a  realizing  sense  of  his 
mastery  came  over  him  and  he  smiled  grimly 
at  the  watchful  faces  that  peered  out  through 
the  cell  gratings,  blinking  and  mowing  like 
monkeys  in  a  zoo.  They  were  beaten,  that  was 
plain,  but  somehow  as  he  looked  them  over  he 
was  conscious  of  a  primordial  cunning  written 
on  every  savage  visage  —  they  bowed  before 

[223] 


THE     TEXICAN 

him;  but  like  the  leopards  before  their  tamer, 
they  crouched,  too.  That  was  it  —  they 
crouched  and  bided  their  time,  and  when  the 
time  came  they  would  hurl  themselves  at  his 
throat.  But  what  was  it  for  which  they  were 
waiting?  All  the  morning  he  pondered  on  it 
as  he  paced  to  and  fro  or  sat  with  his  back 
to  the  bars,  watching.  Then,  as  the  day 
warmed  up  and  his  head  sank  momentarily 
against  his  breast  he  woke  with  a  start  to  be- 
hold a  prison-bleached  hand  reaching,  reach- 
ing for  his  strap.  Instantly  he  rose  up  from 
his  place  and  dealt  out  a  just  retribution,  lay- 
ing on  his  strap  with  the  accuracy  of  a  horse- 
wrangler,  but  even  with  the  howling  of  his 
victim  in  his  ears  he  was  afraid,  for  he  read  the 
hidden  meaning  of  that  act.  With  the  nerve- 
less patience  of  the  beast  they  were  waiting 
for  him  to  go  to  sleep ! 

Once  before,  on  the  open  range,  Pecos  Dai- 
hart  had  arrayed  himself  against  society,  and 
lost,  even  as  he  was  losing  now.  Sooner  or 

[224] 


THE     TEXICAN 

later,  by  day  or  by  night,  these  skulking 
hyenas  of  the  jail-pack  would  catch  him  asleep, 
and  he  shuddered  to  think  how  they  might 
mangle  him.  He  saw  it  clearly  now,  the  fate 
of  the  man  who  stands  alone,  without  a  friend 
to  watch  over  him  or  a  government  to  protect 
his  life.  Not  in  two  hurly-burly  days  and 
nights  had  he  closed  his  bloodshot  eyes,  and  as 
the  heaviness  of  sleep  crept  upon  him  he  paced 
up  and  down  the  corridor,  wrestling  with  the 
spectre  that  was  stealing  away  his  wits  and 
hoping  against  hope  that  Boone  Morgan  would 
come  to  his  aid,  for  Boone  had  seen  his  finish 
from  the  first.  In  sodden  abandonment  to  his 
destiny  he  looked  one  of  the  cells  over  to  see 
if  it  could  be  barricaded,  but  when  one  door 
was  open  they  were  all  open  and  there  was 
no  protection  against  stealth  or  assault.  He 
had  not  even  the  protection  of  the  cave-dweller 
who,  when  sleep  overcame  him,  could  retire 
and  roll  a  great  stone  against  his  door.  Yet 
as  the  possession  of  sleep  took  hold  upon  him 

15  [225] 


THE    TEXICAN 

he  routed  out  the  inmates  of  the  cell  nearest  to 
the  gate,  climbed  into  the  upper  bunk  and  lay 
there,  rigid,  fighting  to  keep  awake. 

It  was  quiet  now  and  the  shuffling  of  the 
long-termers  above  him  came  fainter  and 
fainter;  some  drunk  out  in  the  jag-cell  woke 
up  from  his  long  slumber  and  began  to  sing 
mournfully ;  and  Pecos,  struggling  against  the 
deadly  anaesthetic  of  his  weariness,  listened  in- 
tently to  every  word. 

"My  friends  and  relations  has  caused  a  separation/' 

chanted  the  dirge-like  voice  of  the  singer, 

"Concerning  the  part  of  some  favorite  one. 

Besides  their  vexation  and  great  trubbelation 

They  will  some  time  be  sorry  for  what  they  have  done." 

The  voice  sounded  familiar  to  Pecos  —  or 
was  it  the  music?  —  well,  never  mind,  he  would 
hear  it  to  the  end. 

"My  fortune  is  small,  I  will  truly  confess  it, 
But  what  I  have  got  it  is  all  of  my  own, 
I  might  have  lived  long  in  this  world  and  enjoyed  it 
If  my  cruel  friends  could  have  left  me  alone. 
0 

"Farewell  to  this  country,  I  now  must  leave  it, 
And  seek  my  way  to  some  far  distant  land. 
[226] 


THE     TEXICAN 

My  horse  and  my  saddle  is  a  source  of  all  pleasure 
And  when  I  meet  friend  I  '11  join  heart  and  hand. 

"Farewell  to  the  girl  that  I  no  more  shall  see, 
This  world  is  wide  and  I  '11  spend  it  in  pleasures, 
And  I  don't  care  for  no  girl  that  don't  care  for  me, 
I  '11  drink  and  be  jolly  and  not  care  for  no  downfall. 

"I  '11  drownd  my  troubles  in  a  bottle  of  wine; 
I  '11  drownd  them  away  in  a  full-flowing  bumper 
And  ride  through  the  wild  to  pass  away  time. 
And  when  Death  calls  for  me  I  '11  follow  him  home. 

"No  wife,  no  children  will  be  left  to  suffer, 
Not  even  a  sweetheart  will  be  left  to  mourn. 
I  '11  be  honest  and  fair  in  all  my  transactions, 
Whatever  I  do,  I  intend  to  be  true. 

"Here  is  health  and  good  wishes  to  all  you  fair  ladies  — 
It  is  hard,  boys,  to  find  one  that  will  always  be  true." 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  jail  as  the  singer  wailed 
forth  his  sad  lament,  and  when  the  song  was 
ended  a  murmur  ran  along  the  hall.  Pecos 
listened,  half  in  a  doze,  to  the  muttered  com- 
ments; then  with  a  jerk  he  sat  up  and  stared. 
The  man  in  the  next  cell  had  said, 

"That 's  old  Babe,  singin'  his  jag-song. 
He  '11  be  in  here  pretty  soon." 

Babe!  And  he  would  be  in  there  pretty 
soon!  At  that  magic  word  a  new  life  swept 

[227] 


THE     TEXICAN 

through  Pecos  Dalhart's  veins;  his  drowsiness 
left  him,  and  rousing  up  from  his  bunk  he 
struggled  forth  and  washed  his  face  at  the  tap. 
Time  and  again  he  slapped  the  cool  water  upon 
his  neck  and  hair;  he  drank  a  last  draught  of 
its  freshness  and  paced  the  length  of  the  corri- 
dor, his  head  bowed  as  if  in  thought  —  but  lis- 
tening above  all  other  noises  for  the  sound  of 
Angy's  voice.  Bill  Todhunter  came  and 
glanced  at  him  impersonally,  as  he  might  gaze 
at  a  bronc  that  was  about  to  be  broke,  but 
Pecos  made  no  appeal.  He  had  started  out 
to  wreck  Boone  Morgan's  jail  for  him,  break 
up  his  Kangaroo  Court,  and  establish  the  revo- 
lution, and  with  Angy's  help  he  would  do  it, 
yet.  The  jail  gang  edged  in  on  him  a  little 
closer,  dogging  his  steps  as  the  wolf -pack  fol- 
lows its  kill,  but  at  every  turn  of  his  shaggy 
head  they  slunk  away.  Then  at  last,  just  as 
the  clock  tolled  four,  the  keys  clanked  in  the 
outer  door;  Hung  Wo  slipped  in  with  his 
coffee-pot  and  can,  and  after  him  came  Ange- 
vine  Thorne,  escorted  by  the  deputy. 

[228] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Hello,  Babe!"  chimed  a  chorus  from  behind 
the  bars.  "Hey,  Babe  —  sing  'Kansas' !  Oh, 
Babe !"  But  Angevine  Thorne  had  no  thought 
for  his  quondam  prison  mates,  he  was  placing 
himself  on  record  in  a  protest  against  the  law. 

"The  Constitution  of  the  United  States  guar- 
antees to  every  man  a  fair  and  speedy  trial,"  he 
declaimed  with  drunken  vehemence,  "but  look 
here  and  see  what  a  mockery  you  have  made 
the  law!  Look  at  these  poor  men,  caged  up 
here  yet,  waiting  for  their  trial!  Is  that  a  fair 
and  speedy  hearing?  Look  at  me;  arrested 
for  no  offence;  confined  without  cause;  con- 
demned without  a  hearing;  imprisoned  for  no 
crime !  Is  that  justice ?  Justice  forsooth !  It 
is  conspiracy  —  treachery  —  crime!  Yes,  I 
say  crime!  You  are  the  criminals  and  we  the 
helpless  victims  of  your  hands!  I  appeal  to 
God,  if  there  is  a  God,  to  bear  witness  of  my  in- 
nocence! What?  I  must  go  in?  Then  throw 
open  your  prison  doors  —  I  die  a  martyr  to  the 
Cause!" 

The  clanging  of  the  cell  doors  gave  no  pause 

[229] 


THE    TEXICAN 

to  his  impassioned  eloquence,  nor  yet  his  sud- 
den injection  into  jail;  but  when,  as  he  swayed 
upon  his  heels,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  haggard 
features  of  Pecos  Dalhart,  the  apostle  of  civic 
equality  stopped  short  and  struck  his  brow 
with  a  despairing  hand. 

"What !"  he  cried.  "Are  you  here,  Cumrad  ? 
Then  let  me  die  forthwith,  for  tyranny  has  done 
its  worst!  Pecos  Dalhart,  immured  within 
prison  walls,  torn  from  the  fond  embrace  of 
his  —  but  hush,  I  go  too  far.  Pecos,  old  boy, 
in  the  years  to  come  your  name  shall  go  down 
to  posterity  as  a  martyr  to  the  Cause.  You 
have  been  arrested,  sir,  for  no  crime  in  law  or 
fact,  but  simply  for  your  outspoken  opposition 
to  the  foul  conspiracy  of  capitalism.  Oh,  that 
I  might  stand  before  the  people  and  plead  your 
cause  —  But  enough ;  how  are  you,  Old 
Hoss?" 

He  gathered  Pecos  into  his  arms  and  em- 
braced him,  and  to  the  astonishment  of  Hung 
Wo  and  the  prisoners  Pecos  hugged  him  to 
his  breast. 

[230] 


THE    TEXICAN 

"I  'm  dam'  glad  to  see  you,  Angy,"  he  mur- 
mured, "and  no  mistake.  Here  —  take  this 
strap  and  keep  them  fellers  off  -  - 1  'm  dyin' 
for  a  sleep."  He  reached  back  for  the  floor, 
slipped  gently  down  and  stretched  out  upon 
the  hard  concrete.  When  Angevine  Thorne 
lifted  up  his  head  he  was  asleep. 

"Poor  old  Pecos,"  said  Angy,  holding  out 
his  hands  as  Mark  Antony  did  over  Caesar, 
"there  he  lies,  a  victim  to  his  country's  laws. 
But  sleep,  old  friend,  and  the  first  man  that 
disturbs  your  dreams  will  feel  the  weight  of 
this!"  He  held  up  the  alcalde's  strap  for  em- 
phasis, and  a  low  rumble  of  disapproval  went 
up  from  the  rows  of  cells. 

"He  broke  every  head  in  jail  last  night,"  vol- 
unteered the  deputy,  "an'  it 's  about  time  he 
was  kangarooed!" 

"Not  while  I  live!"  declared  Angy  tragic- 
ally. "Right  or  wrong,  the  first  man  that  lays 
hands  on  this  poor  corse  will  fight  it  out  with 
me!" 

A  chorus  of  defiance  and  derision  was  his 

[231] 


THE     TEXICAN 

only  answer,  but  Angevine  Thorne,  being  a 
natural-born  orator,  knew  better  than  to  re- 
iterate his  remarks  for  emphasis.  He  bal- 
anced the  big  strap  in  his  hand  as  a  warrior 
might  test  his  sword,  and  squatted  down  to  eat. 
While  the  dinner  hour  lasted  he  was  safe  — 
after  that  he  would  feel  his  way.  So  he  put 
his  back  to  the  bars  and  began  to  take  a  little 
nourishment,  gnashing  belligerently  at  his 
hunk  of  meat  and  fortifying  himself  with 
coffee  —  but  that  was  not  to  be  the  limit  of  his 
fare.  As  he  scuttled  back  and  forth  with  the 
prison  plates,  Hung  Wo  had  kept  an  attentive 
eye  upon  the  prostrate  form  of  his  boss  and, 
seeing  no  signs  of  returning  animation,  had 
looked  worried.  At  last,  as  Angy's  protector- 
ate became  evident,  he  returned  to  his  copper 
can  and  produced  a  fine  big  pie. 

"This  for  boss,"  he  said,  and  placed  it  by 
Pecos's  head. 

"All  right,  Wo,"  responded  Angy,  "my 
friend,  he  sleep.  Bimeby  wakum  up,  I  give 
him  pie."  He  finished  up  his  plate,  glanced  at 

[232] 


THE    TEXICAN 

the  surly  faces  behind  the  bars,  and  cast  a  long- 
ing look  at  the  fresh-baked  pie.  There  was 
going  to  be  a  ruction,  that  was  sure,  and  ruc- 
tions are  bad  for  pies.  He  took  Pecos  by  the 
shoulder  and  shook  him  tentatively;  then  with 
a  sigh  of  Christian  resignation  he  reached  over 
and  picked  up  the  pie.  "Dam'  shame  to  go 
and  waste  it,"  he  muttered,  "an'  it 's  all  right, 
too." 

The  prisoners  watched  him  eat  his  way 
through  the  crust  and  down  through  the  middle 
until  finally  he  licked  his  finger-tips  and 
smiled. 

"Him  good  pie,  Wo,"  he  observed,  rising  to 
his  feet,  "make  me  hip  stlong."  He  shoved 
Pecos  back  into  the  corner,  took  his  place  be- 
fore him,  and  balanced  the  strap  for  battle. 
"All  right,  deputy,"  he  said,  "turn  them  tarriers 
loose,  and  if  I  don't  tan  their  hides  with  this 
strap  they  ain't  no  hell  no  mo'!" 

The  cell  doors  clanged  and  flew  open,  the 
balked  cohorts  of  the  enemy  stepped  forth  and 
gathered  about  him,  and  as  Angy  paced  back 

[233] 


THE    TEXICAN 

and  forth  before  his  friend  he  opened  wide  the 
flood-gates  of  his  wrath. 

"See  the  skulkin'  curs  and  cowards,"  he 
cried,  lashing  out  at  them  with  his  strap,  "see 
them  cringe  before  the  whip  like  the  servile 
slaves  they  are.  What  has  this  man  done  that 
you  should  fall  upon  him?  Broke  up  your 
court,  hey?  Well,  what  was  the  court  to  you? 
Didn't  it  punish  you  whether  you  were  right 
or  wrong?  Did  n't  it  tyrannize  over  you  and 
force  you  to  do  its  will?  Ah,  despicable  dogs, 
that  would  lick  the  hand  that  strikes  you- 
come  out  here,  any  one  of  you,  and  I  swear  I  '11 
beat  you  to  death.  Hah!  You  are  afraidl 
You  are  afraid  to  face  an  honest  man  and 
fight  him  hand  to  hand!  Or  is  it  something 
else?"  The  defiant  tone  left  his  voice  of  a  sud- 
den and  he  looked  eagerly  into  their  tense 
faces.  "Or  is  it  something  else?"  he  cried. 
"Friends,  you  have  been  shut  up  here  for 
months  by  that  great  crime  they  call  the  law. 
You  know  that  law  —  how  it  protects  the  rich 
and  crushes  down  the  poor!  What  then  —  do 

[234] 


THE    TEXICAN 

you  still  worship  its  outworn  forms  so  that  you 
must  suffer  them  even  in  jail?  Must  you  still 
have  a  sheriff  to  harass  you,  a  judge  to  condemn 
you,  a  district  attorney  to  talk  you  blind? 
Must  you  still  be  tyrannized  over  by  a  false 
and  illegal  court,  even  in  the  shadow  of  the 
j  ail  ?  God  forbid !  But  what  then  ?  Ah,  yes ; 
what  then!  Friends,  I  bring  you  the  Gospel 
of  Equality;  I  stand  before  you  to  proclaim  as 
our  forebears  proclaimed  before  us,  that  all 
men  are  born  free  and  equal;  I  call  upon  you, 
even  in  this  prison,  to  cast  aside  the  superstition 
of  government  and  proclaim  the  revolution! 
To  hell  with  the  Kangaroo  Court !  My  friend 
here  has  beaten  up  its  officers  —  let  us  abolish 
it  forever!  What?  Is  it  a  go?  Then  here  's 
to  the  revolution  I" 

He  waved  his  hand  above  his  head,  smiling 
upward  at  that  fair  Goddess  of  Liberty  whom 
he  discerned  among  the  rods;  and  the  gaping 
prisoners,  carried  away  by  his  eloquence,  let  out 
a  mighty  yell  of  joy.  Worn  and  jaded  by  the 
dull  monotony  of  their  life  they  seized  upon 

[235] 


THE     TEXICAN 

the  new  religion  with  undiscriminating  zest, 
passing  up  the  big  words  and  the  moonshine 
and  rejoicing  in  their  noble  freedom  from 
restraint.  As  the  first  symptoms  of  a  jail-riot 
began  to  develop  Boone  Morgan  and  his  dep- 
uties rushed  out  to  quell  the  disturbance,  but 
the  revolution  gave  no  promise  of  a  rough- 
house.  As  was  to  be  expected,  the  prostrate 
form  of  Pecos  Dalhart  was  draped  across  the 
foreground  —  and  served  him  right,  for  trying 
to  get  too  gay  —  but  the  other  figures  were  not 
in  good  support.  Angevine  Thorne  stood 
above  the  body  of  his  friend,  waving  the  al- 
calde's strap,  but  the  Roman  mob  was  sadly 
out  of  part.  It  was  dancing  around  the  room 
singing  "Kansas." 

"I  '11  tell  you  what  they  do  —  in  Kansas/' 

they  howled. 

"I  '11  tell  you  what  they  do  —  in  Kansas/' 

and  at  the  end  of  each  refrain  Angy  lifted  up 
his  vibrant  tenor  and  added  yet  another  chap- 
ter to  the  shameless  tale.  It  was  a  bacchanalia 

[236] 


THE     TEXICAN 

of  song,  perhaps ;  or  a  saturnalia  of  inter- State 
revilings ;  but  none  of  the  onlookers  recognized 
in  the  progressive  dirtiness  of  the  words  a  spirit 
of  protest  against  the  law.  The  revolution 
had  come,  but  like  many  another  promising 
child  it  was  too  young  to  be  clearly  differen- 
tiated from  its  twin  brothers,  License  and 
Liberty. 


[237] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BACK   TO    NATURE 

AS  to  what  the  revolution  is  or  is  to  be 
there  are  no  two  authorities  wlio  agree. 
It  is  not  a  thing,  to  be  measured  and  defined; 
nay,  it  is  a  dream  which,  like  our  ideas  of 
heaven,  varies  with  individuals.  To  the  phi- 
losopher it  is  an  earthly  realization  of  all  our 
heavenly  aspirations;  to  the  low-browed  man- 
of -hands  something  less,  since  his  aspirations 
are  less,  but  still  good  to  cure  all  social  ills. 
When  Pecos  Dalhart  entered  the  Geronimo 
County  jail  he  turned  it  into  his  own  idea  of  the 
revolution  —  a  fighting  man's  paradise,  like 
the  Valhalla  of  the  ancients,  where  the  heroes 
fought  all  day  and  were  made  good  as  new 
over  night;  but  when  he  woke  up  from  his 
long  sleep,  behold,  Angy  had  established  a 
philosophical  revolution  in  its  stead!  At  first 
he  was  so  glad  to  wake  up  at  all  that  he  did  not 

[238] 


THE    TEXICAN 

inspect  the  new  social  structure  too  closely  — 
it  had  saved  him  from  a  terrible  beating,  that 
was  sure  —  but  as  the  day  wore  on  and  a  gang 
°f  yeggs  began  to  ramp  about  he  shook  his 
head  and  frowned. 

"Say,  Angy,"  he  said,  "what  did  you  tell 
them  fellers  last  night  to  make  'em  take  on  like 
this?" 

"Told  'em  the  same  old  story,  Cumrad  — 
how  the  monopolistic  classes  has  combined 
with  the  hell  hounds  of  the  law  to  grind  us  pore 
men  down.  Ain't  it  glorious  how  the  glad 
news  has  touched  their  hearts?  Even  within 
the  walls  of  our  prison  they  are  happy !" 

"Umph!"  grunted  Pecos,  and  scowled  up  at 
a  tall  Mexican  who  had  ventured  to  call  him 
compadre.  "What 's  all  this  companero 
talk  that 's  goin'  on  amongst  the  Mexicans  — 
are  they  in  on  the  deal,  too?" 

"Surest  thing!"  responded  Angy  warmly. 

"Huh!"  said  Pecos,  "I  hope  they  don't  try 
no  buen?  amigo  racket  on  me  —  I  was  raised  to 
regard  Mexicans  like  horny  toads." 

[239] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"All  men  is  brothers  —  that 's  my  motto. 
And  they 's  good  Mexicans,  too,  remember 
that.  Just  think  of  Joe  Garcia!" 

"Yes!"  rejoined  Pecos,  with  heat,  "think  of 
'im!  If  it  was  n't  for  that  saddle-colored  das- 
tard I  'd  be  free,  'stead  of  rottin'  in  this  hole. 
I  says  to  the  judge:  'I  bought  that  cow  and 
calf  off  of  Joe  Garcia  —  there  he  is,  standin' 
over  there  —  I  summon  him  for  a  witness.' 
'Is  that  your  calf?'  says  the  judge.  'Kin 
savvy,'  he  says,  humpin'  up  his  back.  'Did 
you  sell  him  to  this  man?'  c Yo  no  sel3  says 
Joe,  and  he  kept  it  up  with  his  'No  savvys'  and 
his  'I  don't  knows'  until  the  dam'  judge 
throwed  me  into  jail.  Sure!  I'm  stuck  on 
Mexicans !  I  '11  brother  'em,  all  right,  if  they 
come  around  me  —  I  '11  brother  'em  over  the 
head  with  a  club !" 

"Jest  the  same,  it  was  Mexicans  that  saved 
your  bacon  last  night,"  retorted  Angy,  with 
spirit.  "Some  of  these  white  men  that  you 
had  beat  up  were  for  pushin'  your  face  in 
while  you  was  asleep,  but  when  I  made  a  little 

[240] 


THE     TEXICAN 

talk  in  Spanish,  touchin'  on  your  friendly  re- 
lations with  the  Garcia  family,  the  Mexicans 
came  over  in  a  body  and  took  your  part.  That 
was  pretty  good,  hey?" 

"Um,"  responded  Pecos,  but  he  assented 
without  enthusiasm.  Barring  the  one  excep- 
tion which  went  to  prove  the  rule,  he  had  never 
had  much  use  for  Mexicans  —  and  Marcelina 
was  a  happy  accident,  not  to  be  looked  for 
elsewhere  in  the  Spanish-American  world. 
Still,  a  man  had  to  have  some  friends;  and  a 
Mex  was  better  than  a  yegg,  anyhow.  He 
looked  around  until  he  found  the  tall  man  who 
had  called  him  compadre  and  beckoned  him 
with  an  imperious  jerk  of  the  head.  The 
Mexican  came  over  doubtfully. 

"You  speak  English?"  inquired  Pecos. 
"That 's  good  —  I  want  to  tell  you  something. 
My  friend  here  says  you  and  your  compadres 
stood  up  for  me  last  night  when  I  was  down 
and  out  —  hey  ?  Well,  that 's  all  right  —  I  'm 
a  Texano  and  I  ain't  got  much  use  for  Mcxi- 
canos  in  general,  but  any  time  you  boys  git 

16  [241] 


THE     TEXICAN 

into  trouble  with  them  yeggs,  jest  call  on  me! 
Savvy?" 

The  tall  man  savvied  and  though  Pecos  still 
regarded  them  with  disfavor  the  Mexican  con- 
tingency persisted  in  doing  him  homage  — 
only  now  they  referred  to  him  as  El  Patrofi. 
Patron  he  was,  and  Boss,  though  he  never 
raised  a  hand.  Interpreting  aright  his  censo- 
rious glances  the  sons  of  Mexico  confined  their 
celebration  of  the  Dawn  of  Freedom  to  a  carni- 
val of  neglect,  lying  in  their  bunks  and  smok- 
ing cigarritos  while  the  filth  accumulated  in  the 
slop  cans.  Under  the  iron  rule  of  Pete  Monat 
they  had  been  required  to  do  all  the  cleaning 
up  —  for  in  Arizona  a  Mexican  gets  the  dirty 
end  of  everything  —  but  no  sooner  had  Babe 
sung  his  clarion  call  for  freedom  than  they 
joined  him,  heart  and  hand.  If  the  Society 
of  the  Revolution  was  at  all  related  to  the 
Sons  of  Rest  they  wanted  to  go  down  as  char- 
ter members  —  and  they  did. 

The  time  may  come  when  cleanliness  will  be 

[242] 


THE     TEXICAN 

an  inherited  instinct  but  at  present  most  of 
the  cleaning  up  in  the  world  is  done  under 
compulsion.  Parents  compel  their  children  to 
wash  and  change  their  clothes ;  employers  com- 
pel their  wage-slaves  to  scrub  and  clean  and 
empty;  cities  compel  their  householders  to  dis- 
pose of  sewage  and  garbage;  but  not  even 
among  members  of  the  capitalistic  classes  is 
there  shown  any  clean-cut  desire  to  do  the  work 
themselves.  The  Arizona  Indians  escape 
their  obligations  by  moving  camp  at  intervals, 
and  God's  sunshine  helps  out  the  settlers;  but 
in  the  Geronimo  jail  there  was  no  sunshine, 
nor  could  any  Indian  break  camp.  They 
were  shut  in,  and  there  they  had  to  lie,  three 
deep,  until  the  judge  should  decide  their  fate. 
For  two  days  they  had  luxuriated  in  anarchy, 
philosophical  and  real,  but  neither  kind  emp- 
tied any  garbage.  The  jail  was  the  dwelling 
place  of  Freedom,  but  it  smelled  bad.  That 
was  a  fact.  Even  the  Mexicans  noticed  it, 
but  they  did  not  take  it  to  heart.  It  was  only 

[243] 


THE     TEXICAN 

when  Boone  Morgan  came  down  for  a  batch 
of  prisoners  that  the  community  got  its  orders 
to  clean  up. 

These  were  busy  days  with  Boone  —  open- 
ing court,  arraigning  prisoners,  summoning 
witnesses,  roping  in  jurymen,  speaking  a  good 
word  for  some  poor  devil  in  the  tanks  —  and 
it  kept  him  on  the  run  from  sun-up  to  dark. 
He  knew  that  Pecos  Dalhart  had  broken  up 
his  Kangaroo  Court  and  that  Angevine  Thorne 
had  pulled  off  some  kind  of  a  tin-horn  revo- 
lution on  him,  but  he  did  n't  mind  a  little  thing 
like  that.  Jail  life  had  its  ups  and  downs, 
but  so  long  as  the  cage  was  tight  the  birds 
could  do  as  they  pleased  —  short  of  raising 
a  riot.  At  least,  that  was  Boone  Morgan's 
theory,  based  on  the  general  proposition  that 
he  could  stand  it  as  long  as  they  could  —  but 
when  at  the  end  of  the  second  day  he  caught  a 
whiff  of  the  sublimated  jail-smell  that  rose 
from  the  abiding  place  of  liberty  he  let  out  a 
"whoosh"  like  a  bear. 

"Holy  Moses,  Bill,"  he  cried,  "make  these 

[244] 


THE     TEXICAN 

rascals  clean  up !  M-mmm !  That  would  drive 
a  dog  out  of  a  tan-yard !  What 's  the  matter 
—  is  somebody  dead?" 

"Not  yet/'  responded  Bill  Todhunter,  "but 
they  will  be,  if  we  don't  git  some  trusty  in 
there.  Them  fellers  won't  do  nuthin' —  an' 
I  can't  go  in  there  and  make  'em!  You  better 
appoint  another  alcalde." 

"What 's  the  matter  with  Pete?" 

"His  head  is  too  sore  —  he  won't  be  able  to 
put  up  a  fight  for  a  month." 

"Umm,  and  Mike  is  fixed  worse  yet  — 
where  's  that  crazy  cowman,  Pecos  Dalhart?" 

They  found  Pecos  comfortably  bestowed  in 
the  bunk  of  the  end  cell,  philosophically  smok- 
ing jail  tobacco  as  a  deodorizer. 

"Say,"  said  the  sheriff,  brusquely  address- 
ing him  through  the  bars,  "things  are  gittin' 
pretty  rotten  around  here  —  somebody  ought 
to  make  them  Mexicans  clean  up.  You  put 
my  Kangaroo  Court  out  of  business  —  how  'd 
you  like  the  job  yourself?" 

Pecos  grunted  contemptuously. 

[245] 


THE    TEXICAN 

"Don't  want  it,  hey?  Well,  you  don't  have 
to  have  it  —  I  can  get  that  big  sheep-man 
down  from  the  upper  tanks." 

A  cold  glint  came  into  Pecos  Dalhart's  eyes, 
but  he  made  no  remarks  —  a  big  sheep -man 
would  just  about  fall  in  with  his  mood. 

"I  got  to  have  some  kind  of  a  trusty,"  ob- 
served Morgan,  but  as  Pecos  did  not  rise  to 
the  bait,  he  passed  down  the  run-around  grum- 
bling. 

"He  's  a  sulky  brute,"  said  Bill  Todhunter, 
as  they  retreated  from  the  stench,  "better  leave 
him  alone  a  while  and  see  if  we  can't  stink  him 
out." 

"Well,  you  order  them  Mexicans  to  clean 
up,"  rumbled  the  sheriff,  "and  if  this  here  Pe- 
cos Dalhart  makes  any  more  trouble  I  '11  see 
that  he  gits  roped  and  hog-tied.  And  say, 
throw  old  Babe  out  of  there  as  soon  as  he  gits 
his  supper.  Them  two  fellers  are  side-kickers 
in  this  business  and  we  got  to  bust  'em  up. 
It 's  a  good  thing  the  grand  jury  ain't  in  ses- 

[246] 


THE     TEXICAN 

sion  now  —  I  'd  git  hell  for  the  condition  of 
that  jail." 

There  never  was  a  jail  so  clean  it  didn't 
smell  bad,  but  that  night  the  Geronimo  jail 
broke  into  the  same  class  with  the  Black  Hole 
of  Calcutta,  yet  the  inmates  seemed  to  enjoy  it. 
The  yegg  gang  in  particular  —  a  choice  assort- 
ment of  Chi  Kids,  Denver  Slims,  and  Philly 
Blacks  who  had  fled  from  the  Eastern  winter  — 
were  having  the  time  of  their  lives,  rampaging 
up  and  down  the  corridor,  upsetting  cuspidors, 
throwing  water  from  the  wash-room,  and  mak- 
ing themselves  strictly  at  home.  When  the 
sturdy  form  of  Pecos  Dalhart  appeared  in  the 
door  of  Cell  One  they  slackened  their  pace  a 
little,  but  now  that  the  moral  restraint  of  Babe 
was  gone  they  felt  free  as  the  prairie  wind. 
Only  in  their  avoidance  of  Mexicans  did  they 
show  a  certain  consciousness  of  authority,  for 
the  word  had  passed  that  Pecos  was  buen 
amigo  with  the  umbres  and  no  one  was  looking 
for  a  rough-house.  As  for  Pecos,  he  put  in  his 

[247] 


THE    TEXICAN 

time  thinking,  standing  aloof  from  friends  and 
enemies  alike  —  and  his  thoughts  were  of  the 
revolution.  When  he  had  been  off  by  himself 
reading  the  Voice  of  Reason  he  had  been  as- 
tounded at  the  blank  stupidity  of  the  common 
people,  which  alone  was  holding  mankind 
back  from  its  obvious  destiny.  "Think,  Slave, 
think!"  it  used  to  say;  and  thinking  was  so 
easy  for  him.  But  the  blind  and  brutish  wage 
slaves  who  were  dragged  at  the  chariot  wheels 
of  capitalism  —  well,  perhaps  they  had  not  yet 
learned  how.  Anyway,  he  had  seen  how  in- 
evitable was  the  revolution,  and  whichever 
way  he  turned  he  saw  new  evidences  of  that 
base  conspiracy  between  wealth  and  govern- 
ment which  keeps  the  poor  man  down.  Nay, 
he  had  not  only  seen  it  —  he  had  suffered  at  its 
hand.  Yet  there  was  one  thing  which  he  had 
never  realized  before,  though  the  Voice  of 
Reason  was  full  of  it  —  the  low  and  churlish 
spirit  of  the  masses  which  incapacitated  them 
for  freedom.  Take  those  yeggs,  now.  They 
had  been  freed  from  the  hard  and  oppressive 

[248] 


THE    TEXICAN 

hand  of  tyranny  and  yet  as  soon  as  the  Kan- 
garoo Court  was  abolished  they  began  to  raise 
particular  hell.  It  was  discouraging.  There 
was  only  one  way  to  beat  sense  into  some  peo- 
ple, and  that  was  with  a  club.  A  cuspidor 
came  the  length  of  the  corridor  and  Pecos  rose 
slowly  from  his  couch.  What  was  the  use  of 
trying  the  revolution  on  a  gang  of  narrow- 
headed  yeggs! 

"Hey,"  he  challenged,  "you  yaps  want  to 
key  down  a  little  or  I  '11  rattle  your  heads  to- 
gether. Go  on  into  your  cells  now,  and  shut 
up."  He  fixed  the  yegg-men  sternly  with  his 
eye,  but  the  blood  had  gone  to  their  heads 
from  gambolling  about  and  they  still  had  their 
dreams  of  heaven. 

"Aw,  gwan,"  said  Philly  Black,  "we  ain't 
doin'  nawthin' — give  a  feller  a  show,  can't 
ye?" 

"W'y,  sure,  I  '11  give  you  a  show!"  thundered 
Pecos  wrathfully.  "You  yeggs  think  because 
I  licked  Pete  Monat  I  give  you  license  to  prize 
up  hell.  You  got  this  jail  like  a  hog- waller 

[249] 


THE     TEXICAN 

already  in  two  days.  Now,  clean  up,  you  das- 
tards, and  the  first  man  that  opens  his  face  to 
me  will  go  to  the  doctor!" 

There  was  no  easy  answer  to  an  argument 
like  that  and  the  gang  slouched  sullenly  to 
their  task,  making  all  the  motions  of  a  super- 
ficial cleaning  up  but  leaving  the  jail  dirtier 
than  ever.  With  his  strap  poised  Pecos  stood 
over  them,  reading  well  the  insubordination  in 
their  black  hearts  and  waiting  only  for  some 
one  to  start  the  fray.  At  every  move  the 
yeggs  became  viler  and  more  slipshod  in  their 
methods,  spilling  half  the  contents  of  every  can 
upon  the  floor,  and  still  Pecos  Dalhart  eyed 
them  grimly,  while  the  awe-stricken  Mexicans 
huddled  together  in  their  cells  waiting  for  the 
catastrophe.  At  last  Philly  Black,  embold- 
ened by  his  immunity,  was  moved  to  take  a 
chance.  Seizing  recklessly  upon  the  nearest 
can  he  made  a  rush  for  the  wash-room,  slopping 
filth  and  corruption  as  he  went.  As  he  passed 
Pecos  his  hold  slipped,  accidentally,  of  course, 

[250] 


You  will  turn  this  jail  into  a  hog-waller,  will  you?  " 
he  demanded 


THE    TEXICAN 

and  the  can  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  final  over- 
flowing of  uncleanness. 

"Clean  that  up,"  Pecos  said,  as  Philly  Black 
came  to  a  crouch,  but  Philly  only  looked  over 
his  shoulder.  "Clean  that  up!"  commanded 
Pecos,  drawing  nearer.  "Clean  -  "  but  Philly 
was  cleaning  up.  His  gang  had  not  rallied  to 
his  aid.  Slowly  and  slovenly,  and  making 
ugly  faces,  he  bent  to  his  unwilling  task, 
scowling  beneath  his  black  mop  of  hair  at  Den- 
ver and  Chi  and  the  gang. 

"I  said  clean  up!"  rumbled  Pecos,  as  Philly 
grabbed  his  can  to  go.  "Clean  up!  You  don't 
call  that  clean,  do  you?" 

"Aw,  go  t'hell!"  bellowed  Philly  Black, 
hurling  his  slop-can  once  more  upon  the  floor. 
"Let  the  dam'  Mexicans  clean  up!" 

He  dodged  the  swift  swing  of  the  strap  and 
leapt  in,  calling  on  his  fellows  for  aid.  For  a 
moment  they  wrestled  furiously,  and  as  the 
yeggs  rushed  in  to  help,  the  Mexicans  swarmed 
out  to  meet  them;  but  before  either  side  could 

[251] 


THE     TEXICAN 

lend  a  hand  Philly  Black  slipped  on  his  own 
dirty  floor  and  went  down  with  a  deadly  thud. 
Pecos  rode  him  to  the  floor,  clutching  fiercely 
at  his  throat;  for  an  instant  he  waited  for  him 
to  fight  back,  then  he  sprang  up  and  waded 
into  the  yeggs.  Philly  was  where  he  would 
make  no  trouble  for  quite  a  while. 

Once  more  at  the  clamor  of  battle  the  jail 
deputies  came  rushing  to  the  rescue,  bending 
their  futile  pistols  upon  the  yelling  prisoners. 

"It's  that  blankety-blank,  Pecos  Dalhart!" 
shouted  Bill  Todhunter  as  he  goggled  through 
the  bars.  "Well,  the  son  of  a  goat,  ain't  he  a 
fightin'  fool!"  There  was  a  note  almost  of  ad- 
miration in  his  voice,  for  Pecos  was  punching 
heads  and  belting  yeggs  with  the  calculating 
rage  of  a  conqueror. 

"Git  out  of  my  way,  umbres!"  he  yelled  to 
his  Mexican  retainers.  "Vaya  se  —  vamos  —  I 
can  fix  'em!"  And  he  surely  did.  In  his 
strong  hands  the  alcalde's  strap  was  a  deadly 
weapon ;  he  swung  it  with  a  puncher's  skill  and 
laid  it  on  like  a  horse-wrangler.  Shrieks  for 

[252] 


THE     TEXICAN 

mercy  were  mingled  with  howls  of  pain  and 
every  time  a  man  stood  up  to  him  he  slugged 
him  with  all  his  strength.  The  floor  was 
strewn  with  yeggs  and  when  he  had  beaten 
down  all  opposition  he  flogged  them  into  their 
cells. 

"You  will  turn  this  jail  into  a  hog- waller, 
will  you?"  he  demanded,  when  the  corridor  was 
cleared  of  men.  "You  will  throw  slops  on  the 
floor  and  not  half  clean  'em  up!  Well,  come 
outer  there,  you  low-browed  hobos  —  1 3ll  show 
you  .how  it 's  done !  Now  take  them  swabs  and 
fill  your  cans  with  water  and  wash  this  floor  up 
right.  No,  you  stay  where  you  are,  umbres; 
I  want  to  show  these  brake-beam  tourists 
who  's  the  boss.  Jump  now,  you  panhandlers, 
or  I  '11  burn  you  up  with  this!"  He  swung 
his  wet  strap  and  popped  it  behind  the  Chi 
Kid,  and  Chi  went  on  his  way.  Bill  Tod- 
hunter  and  the  jail  deputy  looked  curiously  on 
through  the  bars;  the  reporter  for  the  morn- 
ing Blade  showed  up  suddenly  from  nowhere 
and  began  to  ask  leading  questions,  but  Pecos 

[253] 


THE     TEXICAN 

did  not  unbend.  In  vain  the  reporter  tried  to 
beckon  him  up  to  the  bars  —  Pecos  remem- 
bered him  too  well  as  the  fresh  young  man  who 
had  made  a  jest  of  his  breaking  into  jail;  also 
he  hoped  he  could  do  a  little  job  of  house- 
cleaning  without  going  on  record  as  the  friend 
of  old  Boone  Morgan.  He  might  be  a  little 
weak  on  the  revolution  but  he  knew  his  natural 
enemies.  These  were  the  men  who  had  thrown 
him  into  jail  for  branding  his  own  cow's  calf; 
they  were  the  hirelings  of  the  System,  friends 
to  the  rich  and  enemies  to  the  poor;  to  them 
the  agony  of  his  soul  was  no  more  than  a  pass- 
ing jest.  He  turned  on  the  reporter  and 
scowled. 

"Go  take  a  run  and  jump  at  yourself!"  he 
said. 


[254] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  POWER  OF  THE  PRESS 

THE  power  of  a  venal  and  subsidized 
press  in  moulding  public  opinion  is  a 
thing  that  can  hardly  be  overstated,  even  by 
the  Voice  of  Reason.  When  Pecos  Dalhart 
told  the  willowy  young  man  from  the  Blade 
to  take  a  running  jump  at  himself  he  ex- 
pressed as  in  no  other  way  his  absolute  con- 
tempt for  society.  Young  Mr.  Baker  of  the 
Geronimo  Blade  had  the  cigarette  habit,  he 
drank  whiskey,  and  his  private  life  would  not 
bear  too  close  inspection  —  he  was  hardly  the 
man  that  one  would  choose  as  a  censor  of  pub- 
lic character  —  and  yet  he  held  the  job. 
When  Pecos  had  broken  up  Boone  Morgan's 
Kangaroo  Court  and  spoiled  the  clever  little 
court-house  skit  that  Mr.  Baker  had  framed 
up  in  his  mind,  that  unprincipled  young  man 

[255] 


THE     TEXICAN 

had  alluded  to  him,  briefly  and  contemptuously, 
as  a  bad  hombre  from  the  Verde  country,  a 
desperate  fellow,  etc.,  and  had  ended  by  saying 
that  Sheriff  Morgan,  who  was  convinced  that 
he  had  a  dangerous  criminal  on  his  hands,  was 
looking  up  his  record  in  Texas.  That  was  a 
lovely  introduction  for  a  man  who  was  held  for 
the  grand  jury  —  it  reached  the  eye  of  nearly 
every  qualified  juror  in  the  county  and  was 
equivalent  to  about  seven  years  in  Yuma.  If 
Mr.  Baker  had  been  human  this  last  admoni- 
tion about  the  running  jump  would  have  raised 
it  to  fourteen  years,  but  they  were  short  of 
copy  that  day  and  Baker  was  only  a  reporter, 
so  he  sharpened  up  his  pencil  and  wrote  a  little 
jolly,  just  to  keep  Boone  Morgan  in  good 
humor. 

JAIL  STRIKE  A  FAILURE 

"Mr.  Pecos  Q.  Dalhart,  who  signalized  his  incar- 
ceration in  the  county  jail  by  breaking  up  the  prisoners' 
court,  sending  the  Hon.  Pete  Monat  and  Michael  Slattery 
to  the  hospital,  and  beating  up  the  defenceless  inmates 
with  a  chair,  pulled  off  another  little  soiree  last  night, 
though  for  a  different  cause.  It  appears  that  when 
Mr.  Dalhart  registered  at  the  Hotel  de  Morgan  he  had 

[256] 


THE     TEXICAN 

been  reading  a  certain  incendiary  sheet  which  panders 
to  the  unreasoning  prejudice  of  the  ignorant  by  a  gen- 
eral rave  against  the  established  order  of  things.  With 
his  mind  inflamed  by  this  organ  of  anarchy  Mr.  Dalhart 
conceived  the  original  and  ambitious  idea  of  destroying 
the  last  vestige  of  law,  order,  and  government  within 
the  walls  of  his  prison,  and  Sheriff  Morgan,  being  of  a 
tolerant  disposition,  decided  to  let  him  try  it  on  and  see 
how  he  enjoyed  the  results.  Not  every  public  officer 
would  have  had  the  courage  to  permit  such  a  firebrand 
to  carry  on  his  propaganda  unhindered,  but  Boone  Mor- 
gan has  merited  the  confidence  of  every  citizen  of 
Geronimo  County  by  his  fearless  handling  of  the  des- 
perate men  entrusted  to  his  care,  and  the  outcome  of  this 
episode  is  a  case  in  point.  Only  three  days  were  needed 
to  convince  the  bad  man  from  Verde  Crossing  of  the 
error  of  his  way.  His  first  outbreak  was  to  destroy  all 
law  and  order  —  his  second  was  to  enforce  the  sanitary 
regulations  of  the  prison.  By  his  sudden  and  decided 
stand  for  cleanliness  Mr.  Dalhart  has  shown  that  he 
possesses  the  capacity  for  better  things,  even  if  he  did 
make  a  slight  mistake  in  regard  to  Isaac  Crittenden's 
spotted  calf.  The  scrap  was  a  jim-dandy,  while  it 
lasted,  but  the  issue  was  never  in  doubt,  for  the  Verde 
terror  is  a  whirlwind  when  he  gets  started.  There  have 
been  house-cleanings  galore  in  the  past,  but  never  within 
the  memory  of  man  has  the  Geronimo  jail  received  such 
a  washing  and  scrubbing  as  was  administered  when  Dal- 
hart rose  up  in  his  wrath  and  put  down  the  very  strike 
which  he  had  organized;  and  while  the  sheriff  cannot 
but  deprecate  his  tendency  to  resort  to  violence  there  is 
no  gainsaying  the  fact  that  in  this  case  his  motives  were 
of  the  best.  Stay  with  it,  Pecos,  you  may  be  alcalde 
yet!" 

17  [257] 


THE     TEXICAN 

Pecos  Dalhart  was  sitting  in  lonely  state, 
eating  the  fresh-baked  pie  which  Hung  Wo 
conferred  upon  him  as  the  Boss,  when  Bill 
Todhunter  shoved  a  copy  of  the  Geronimo 
Blade  through  the  bars. 

"See  you  got  yore  name  in  the  paper,"  he 
observed,  but  Pecos  only  grunted.  Curiosity 
is  an  attribute  of  the  child  —  and  besides,  he 
was  more  interested  in  his  pie.  It  had  always 
been  an  ambition  of  his  to  have  pie  three  times 
a  day,  and  the  steady  round  of  beef,  bread,  and 
coffee  incidental  to  life  on  the  range  had  made 
that  hope  seem  a  dream  dear  enough  almost  to 
justify  matrimony.  At  least,  he  had  never  ex- 
pected to  attain  to  it  any  other  way ;  but  Hung 
Wo  was  a  good  cook,  when  he  wanted  to  be. 
To  serve  two  prison  meals  a  day  for  fourteen 
cents  and  a  profit  meant  pretty  close  figuring, 
and  the  patrons  of  Hung  Wo's  downtown  res- 
taurant needed  to  have  no  compunctions  about 
leaving  a  part  of  their  bounteous  dinner  un- 
touched —  the  guests  of  the  Hotel  de  Morgan 
were  not  supposed  to  be  superstitious  about  eat- 

[258] 


THE    TEXICAN 

ing  "come-backs."  It  would  be  a  poor  China- 
man who  could  not  feed  you  on  ten  cents  a  day, 
if  you  did  n't  care  what  you  ate.  But  Pecos 
cared,  and  he  cast  a  glance  that  was  almost 
benevolent  upon  his  faithful  pie-maker  as  he 
tucked  the  Blade  into  his  shirt. 

"That 's  good  pie,  Charley,"  he  said  ap- 
provingly. "Some  day  when  you  ketchum  big 
hurry  I  make  him  boy  wash  dishes." 

"Allite,"  responded  Hung  Wo,  "you  likee 
kek?" 

"Sure  thing!     You  savvey  makum  cake?" 

"Me  makum  kek,  pie,  cha'lotte  lusse,  cus- 
ta'd,  plenty  mo'!"  declaimed  Charley,  with 
pride. 

"Sure!  I  know  you!  You  keep  big  res- 
taurant—  down  by  Turf  Saloon,  hey?  I  eat 
there,  one  time  —  heap  good!" 

"You  tlink  so?"  beamed  the  child-like  Ori- 
ental. "Allite,  next  time  me  bingum  kek!" 
He  gathered  up  the  tin  pannikins  and  de- 
parted, radiant,  while  Pecos  crouched  peace- 
fully on  his  heels  against  the  corridor  bars. 

[259] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"Say,  they  's  a  piece  about  you  in  that  pa- 
per," volunteered  Todhunter,  as  he  jerked 
open  the  cell  doors,  "that  young  feller  that  was 
here  last  night  wrote  it  up." 

"Aw,  to  hell  with  'im,"  growled  Pecos 
scornfully;  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  inter- 
ested. Life  within  prison  walls  is  not  very 
exciting  —  there  is  lots  of  company,  but  not  of 
the  best,  and  any  man  who  does  not  want  to 
hear  dirty  stories  or  learn  how  "mooching"  and 
"scoffing"  is  done,  or  the  details  of  the  jungle 
life,  is  likely  in  time  to  become  lonely.  Already 
he  was  hungry  for  the  outdoor  life  —  the  beat- 
ing of  the  hot  sun,  the  tug  of  the  wind,  the  feel 
of  the  saddle  between  his  knees  —  but  alas,  he 
was  doomed  to  spend  his  unprofitable  days  in 
jail,  a  burden  to  himself  and  society!  Six 
months  in  jail,  before  he  could  come  before 
the  grand  jury  and  have  his  trial  —  six 
months,  and  it  had  not  yet  been  six  days.  He 
drew  the  morning  Blade  from  his  bosom  and 
examined  it  carefully,  searching  vainly  through 
editorial  columns  and  patent  insides  until 

[260] 


THE     TEXICAN 

at  last  he  caught  the  heading:  "Jail  Strike  a 
Failure.  Bad  Man  from  Verde  Crossing 
Makes  Prisoners  Clean  Up."  Then  he  read 
the  article  through  carefully,  mumbling  over 
the  big  words  in  the  hope  of  sensing  their  mean- 
ing and  lingering  long  over  his  name  in  print. 
At  the  allusion  to  the  Voice  of  Reason  he 
flushed  hot  with  indignation;  muttered  curses 
greeted  the  name  of  Sheriff  Morgan ;  but  every 
time  he  came  to  "Mr.  Dalhart"  he  smiled 
weakly  and  nursed  his  young  mustache.  But 
after  he  had  finished  he  went  back  and  gazed 
long  and  intently  at  his  full  name  as  given  at 
the  beginning: — "Mr.  Pecos  Q.  Dalhart" — 
Pecos  Q./  He  read  the  entire  paper  over  care- 
fully and  came  back  to  it  again ;  and  that  even- 
ing, when  Mr.  Baker  of  the  Blade  strolled  in, 
he  beckoned  him  sternly  to  the  bars. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "what  the  hell  you  mean  by 
puttin'  that  'Q.'  in  my  name  —  Pecos  Q.  Dal- 
hart? My  name  is  Pecos  straight  —  named 
after  that  river  in  Texas !" 

"Oh,  is  it?"  cried  the  young  reporter,  mak- 
[261] 


THE     TEXICAN 

ing  a  hurried  note.  "Well,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mr.  Dalhart,  I  'm  sure.  How  's  houseclean- 
ing  to-day?  Organized  your  court  yet?  No? 
Well,  when  you  do,  let  me  know.  Always  like 
to  be  present,  you  understand,  when  you  have 
a  trial."  He  hurried  away,  as  if  upon  im- 
portant business,  and  slowed  down  as  suddenly 
before  the  sheriff's  office. 

"That  'Q.'  did  the  business,"  he  observed, 
glancing  triumphantly  at  the  assembled  com- 
pany. "I  told  you  I  'd  make  that  rustler  talk. 
A  man  may  not  give  a  dam'  what  you  say 
about  him  but  he  goes  crazy  if  you  get  his  name 
wrong  —  I  found  that  out  long  ago.  Mr. 
Dalhart  informs  me  that  his  name  is  Pecos 
straight  —  no  'Q.'  in  it.  Pecos  Straight  Dal- 
hart !  All  right,  I  '11  try  to  get  it  right  next 
time.  What  '11  you  bet  we  don't  have  another 
Kangaroo  Court  before  the  end  of  the  week?" 

"The  cigars,"  replied  Boone  Morgan  cas- 
ually. As  a  politician,  cigars  were  a  matter  of 
small  import  to  him  —  when  he  was  not  giving 

[262] 


THE     TEXICAN 

them  away  his  friends  were  giving  cigars  to 
him. 

"I  '11  go  you !"  cried  Baker  enthusiastically, 
"and  the  drinks,  too.  You  better  turn  Mr. 
Dalhart  over  to  me  for  a  while  and  watch  me 
make  a  man  out  of  him.  All  I  ask  is  that  you 
give  him  the  morning  Blade/' 

"All  right,"  assented  Bill  Todhunter,  from 
the  corner;  and  the  next  morning  Pecos  re- 
ceived it  with  his  breakfast.  Charley  Hung 
Wo  had  provided  him  with  an  unusually 
tempting  apple  roll  that  morning  but  it  was 
neglected  for  the  moment  while  he  ran  over 
the  Court  House  Briefs.  He  searched  the 
whole  page  carefully,  but  there  was  no  mention 
of  Pecos  Dalhart,  either  with  or  without  the 
"Q."  He  pondered  upon  the  fact  during  the 
day — having  nothing  else  to  do  —  and  when  the 
Friday  paper  came  out  with  nothing  about  the 
Hotel  de  Morgan  in  it  he  considered  the  matter 
seriously.  Then  it  came  over  him  gradually 
—  there  _.„  nothing  mysterious  about  it  — 

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THE     TEXICAN 

the  reporter  was  waiting  for  something  to  hap- 
pen —  a  kangaroo  trial,  or  something  like  that. 
Well,  anything  for  a  little  excitement  —  why 
not?  There  were  lots  of  things  to  be  remedied. 
The  yeggs  had  a  dirty  way  of  tapping  on  the 
boiler-iron  doors  and  singing  lewd  songs  after 
they  were  locked  into  their  cells  for  the  night, 
a  combination  which  broke  in  on  his  sleep ;  and 
knowing  that  they  were  safe  from  his  strap 
they  persisted  in  this  amusement  until  they 
could  sing  no  more,  stoutly  denying  all  knowl- 
edge of  the  disturbance  in  the  morning.  It 
was  the  only  revenge  they  could  take  on  him 
and  they  worked  it  to  the  limit.  Not  to  be 
outdone  in  the  matter  of  revenge  he  drove 
them  like  a  pack  of  peons  in  the  morning,  forc- 
ing them  to  do  all  the  cleaning  while  his  Mex- 
ican friends  rolled  cigarritos  —  but  that  was 
getting  wearisome.  Yet  how  easy  it  would  be 
to  change!  The  verdict  of  a  kangaroo  jury  is 
always  "Guilty"-  -  why  not  accuse  half  the 
yeggs  of  disturbing  the  peace,  appoint  the  jury 
from  the  other  half,  and  let  yegg  nature  do  the 


THE     TEXICAN 

rest?  Then  sentence  the  prisoners  at  the  bar 
to  clean  up  for  a  week.  Why  not,  indeed! 

At  supper  time  Pecos  spoke  a  few  invita- 
tional words  through  the  bars  to  Bill  Tod- 
hunter  and  about  the  time  the  boy  reporter 
from  the  Blade  was  due  he  placed  his  chair 
against  the  doors  and  called  his  court  to  order. 

"Oyez!  Oyez!  The  Kangaroo  Court  of 
Geronimo  is  now  in  session!"  he  announced,  in 
stentorian  tones,  and  instantly  the  prisoners 
began  to  assemble.  "Oyez"  was  good  Span- 
ish for  "Hear!"  and  brought  out  all  the  Mex- 
icans; and  the  Americans  came  on  the  run, 
eager  for  any  excitement  to  pass  the  time  away. 

"Blacky,"  said  Pecos,  addressing  the  one- 
time king  of  the  yeggs,  "bring  the  Chi  Kid 
before  the  bar  of  justice.  He  is  accused  of 
disturbing  the  peace  by  singin'  songs  all  night." 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  Philly  Black 
laid  violent  hands  upon  his  friend  and  cell- 
mate and  dragged  him  before  the  court.  The 
mandates  of  the  law  are  inexorable;  and  be- 
sides, Philly  wanted  the  job  of  sheriff. 

[265] 


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"Come  up  here,  Chi,"  he  swaggered,  fetch- 
ing Chi  Kid  around  with  a  jerk,  "now  stand 
there,  or  I  '11  punch  youse  in  the  jaw!"  Chi 
stood,  reading  his  fate  in  every  eye. 

"Now,  summon  me  a  couple  of  witnesses!" 
commanded  Pecos,  and  as  Blacky  sifted 
through  the  crowd  looking  for  a  pair  of  men 
who  could  stand  the  Kid  off  later,  Boone  Mor- 
gan and  the  boy  reporter  arrived  from  the 
outer  office  and  stood  by  to  see  the  fun. 

"Chi  Kid,"  declaimed  the  judge,  "you  are 
accused  of  singin'  dirty  songs  all  night  and 
disturbin'  of  the  peace.  Do  you  plead  guilty 
or  not  guilty?" 

"Not  guilty!"  responded  Chi,  rolling  his 
evil  eyes  on  the  witnesses. 

"Bring  up  them  witnesses!"  said  Pecos 
briefly.  "Slim,  did  you  hear  the  accused 
singin'  them  dirty  songs  of  his  last  night?" 

"Yes,  Yer  Honor!"  answered  Denver  Slim 
dutifully,  "and  I  could  n't  hardly  sleep  -  -  Yer 
Honor!" 

"Urr  —  it 's  too  bad  about  you,"  commented 
[266] 


THE    TEXICAN 

the  alcalde.  "Bring  up  that  other  witness!" 
The  other  witness  had  suffered  a  similar  in- 
somnia. "That 's  all!"  announced  Pecos,  with 
finality,  "got  to  hurry  this  case  through  now. 
Got  anything  to  say  for  yourse'f,  prisoner?" 

"I  demand  a  jury  trial!"  growled  the  Kid. 

"Too  late  for  that  now  —  the  defendant  is 
found  guilty  and  sentenced  to  clean  up  for  a 
week  or  git  forty  blows  with  the  strap. 
Sheriff,  bring  me  Denver  Slim!" 

There  was  a  genuine  commotion  at  this,  but 
Philly  Black  produced  the  accused  —  he  had 
to,  or  lose  his  job. 

"Denver  Slim,  you  are  accused  of  hammerin' 
on  your  door  all  night  and  disturbin'  of  the 
peace.  Do  you  plead  guilty  or  not  guilty?" 

Denver  turned  and  made  three  successive 
jabs  at  the  jail  sheriff,  who  had  ruffled  his  feel- 
ings from  behind;  then  he  drew  himself  up  and 
remarked : 

"I  don't  plead!" 

"  'Don't  plead'  is  the  same  as  'Not  guilty,'  " 
said  Pecos,  remembering  his  experience  with 

[267] 


THE     TEXICAN 

Pete  Monat,  "and  more  than  that,"  he  thun- 
dered, "it's  the  same  as  contempt  of  court! 
Mr.  Sheriff,  spread-eagle  the  prisoner  over  a 
chair  while  I  give  him  ten  good  ones  for  con- 
tempt—  the  trial  will  then  proceed!"  He 
rose  from  his  chair  and  approached  the  de- 
fendant warily,  hefting  his  strap  as  he  came, 
and  Denver  became  so  deeply  engrossed  in 
his  movements  that  Philly  Black  closed  with 
him  from  the  rear.  There  was  a  struggle, 
gazed  upon  judicially  by  the  alcalde,  and  at 
last  with  a  man  on  every  arm  and  leg  Denver 
was  laid  sprawling  over  the  back  of  the  chair 
while  the  prisoners  gibbered  with  delight. 
The  blows  were  laid  on  soundly  and  yet  with 
a  merciful  indulgence  and  when  the  humiliat- 
ing ceremony  was  over  Pecos  had  won  every 
heart  but  one.  Denver  Slim  was  sore,  of 
course ;  but  how  are  you  to  have  a  Roman  holi- 
day unless  somebody  else  gets  hurt?  They 
had  a  long  and  protracted  jury  trial  after  this, 
with  a  fiery  denunciation  of  law-breakers  by 
John  Doe,  the  district  attorney;  and  the  ver- 

[268] 


THE    TEXICAN 

diet,  of  course,  was  "Guilty."  Then  they 
kangarooed  a  few  Mexicans  to  clean  up  their 
side  of  the  house  and  ended  with  a  jubilee 
chorus  of  "Kansas." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  they  do  — in  Kansas!" 

It  was  great.  There  was  a  piece  about  it 
in  the  paper  the  next  morning  and  prospec- 
tive grand  jury-men  slapped  their  legs  and 
remarked,  one  to  the  other:  "That  Pecos  Dai- 
hart  is  a  proper  fighting  fool,  ain't  he?  I 
reckon  Old  Crit  just  jumped  him  into  that 
racket  up  the  river  in  order  to  git  him  out  of 
the  country.  It 's  a  dam'  shame,  too,  when 
you  think  how  many  Crit  has  stole !" 

But  alas,  neither  public  praise  nor  blame 
could  open  up  the  bars  and  let  Pecos  out  of 
jail.  He  was  held  by  a  power  higher  than 
any  man  —  the  po.wer  of  the  Law,  which,  be- 
cause it  has  endured  so  long  and  is,  in  fact, 
all  we  have,  is  deemed  for  that  reason  sacred. 
And  the  law  was  busy  —  it  is  always  busy  — 
and  behind.  Well,  Pecos  did  n't  know  much 

[269] 


THE     TEXICAN 

about  it,  except  what  he  had  read  in  the  Voice 
of  Reason,  but  as  he  heard  the  ponderous 
wheels  of  the  law  grinding  about  him,  saw 
yeggs  escape  by  cleverly  devised  tales  and 
Mexicans  soaked  because  they  were  slow  and 
dumb,  he  wondered  if  that  was  the  only  way 
they  could  make  a  stagger  at  justice.  A 
drunken  cowboy  had  seized  a  gay  man-about- 
town  and  taken  his  pen-knife  from  his  pocket 
—  grand  larceny  of  the  person,  he  was  sen- 
tenced to  seven  years.  Another  drunken 
reprobate  had  beaten  up  the  roustabout  in  a 
saloon  —  and  got  thirty  days  for  assault  and 
battery.  Both  drunk  and  both  bad,  but  one 
had  played  to  hard  luck.  He  had  taken 
property,  the  other  had  hurt  a  man.  Pecos 
saw  when  it  was  too  late  where  he  had  marred 
his  game  —  he  should  have  beaten  Old  Crit 
instead  of  branding  his  calf. 

In  sombre  silence  he  listened  day  by  day 
as  the  jail-lawyers  —  wise  criminals  who  had 
been  in  the  toils  before  —  cooked  up  stories  to 
explain  away  misdeeds;  he  watched  day  by 

[270] 


THE    TEXICAN 

day  as  the  prisoners  came  down  from  their 
trial,  some  with  bowed  heads  or  cursing 
blindly,  others  laughing  hysterically  as  they 
scuttled  out  the  door;  and  many  a  man  who 
had  sworn  to  a  lie  went  free  where  simple- 
minded  sinners  plead  guilty  and  took  their 
fate.  Some  there  were  who  had  boggled  their 
stories  because  their  dull  minds  could  not  com- 
pass the  deceit;  the  district  attorney  had  torn 
them  to  flinders,  raging  and  threatening  them 
with  his  finger  for  the  perjured  fools  they  were, 
and  the  judge  had  given  them  the  limit  for 
swearing  to  a  lie.  Even  in  jail  it  was  the  poor 
and  lowly  who  were  punished,  while  the  jail- 
lawyers  and  those  who  could  afford  the  petty 
dollar  that  hired  them  took  shelter  behind  the 
law.  Yes,  it  was  all  a  game,  and  the  best  man 
won  —  if  he  held  the  cards. 

Slowly  and  with  painstaking  care  Pecos 
went  over  his  own  case,  comparing  it  with  these 
others,  and  his  heart  sank  as  he  saw  where  the 
odds  lay.  The  spotted  calf  was  his  —  he 
could  swear  to  it  —  but  it  bore  the  brand  of 

[271] 


THE     TEXICAN 

Crittenden  and  he  had  lost  his  bill  of  sale. 
There  were  forty  two-gun  cowboys  working 
for  Crit  and  any  one  of  them  would  swear 
him  into  jail  for  a  drink  —  they  had  done  it, 
so  he  knew.  Jose  Garcia  was  afraid  to  tell 
the  truth  and  Crittenden  would  scare  him 
worse  than  ever  before  the  trial  took  place. 
Ah,  that  trial  —  it  was  more  than  five  months 
off  yet  and  he  could  not  stir  a  foot !  Once  out- 
side the  bars  and  free-footed  he  could  shake 
up  the  dust;  he  could  rustle  up  his  witnesses 
and  his  evidence  and  fight  on  an  equality  with 
Crit.  But  no,  the  munneypullistic  classes  had 
a  bigger  pull  on  him  than  ever,  now  —  he  was 
jailed  in  default  of  bail  and  no  one  would  put 
up  the  price.  God,  what  an  injustice!  A 
rich  man  —  a  man  with  a  single  friend  who 
could  put  up  a  thousand  dollars'  bail  —  Tie 
could  go  free,  to  hire  his  lawyers,  look  up  his 
witnesses,  and  fight  his  case  in  the  open;  but 
a  poor  man  —  he  must  lay  his  condemned 
carcass  in  jail  and  keep  it  there  while  the  law 
went  on  its  way.  Day  by  day  now  the  pris- 

[272] 


THE    TEXICAN 

oners  went  to  Yuma  to  serve  their  time,  or 
passed  out  into  the  world.  But  were  those 
who  passed  out  innocent?  The  law  said  so, 
for  it  set  them  free.  And  yet  they  were  white 
with  the  deadly  pallor  of  the  prison,  their 
hands  were  weak  from  inactivity,  and  their 
minds  poisoned  by  the  vile  company  of  yeggs; 
they  had  lain  there  in  the  heat  all  summer 
while  judges  went  to  the  coast  and  grand  jury- 
men harvested  their  hay,  and  after  all  their 
suffering,  as  a  last  and  crowning  flaunt,  the 
law  had  declared  them  innocent!  It  had  been 
many  days  since  Pecos  had  seen  the  Voice  of 
Reason  and  he  had  lost  his  first  enthusiasm 
for  the  revolution,  but  nothing  could  make 
him  think  that  this  was  right.  The  Law  was 
like  his  kangaroo  court,  that  travesty  which  he 
made  more  villainous  in  order  to  show  his  scorn; 
it  laid  hold  upon  the  innocent  and  guilty  and 
punished  them  alike.  Only  the  sturdy  fight- 
ers, like  him,  escaped  —  or  the  prisoners  who 
had  their  dollar.  That  was  it  —  money! 
And  Pecos  Dalhart  had  always  been  poor. 

18  [273] 


THE     TEXICAN 

As  the  mills  of  the  gods  ground  on,  Pete 
Monat,  with  his  bandaged  head,  and  Mike 
Slattery,  still  nursing  his  battered  jaw,  were 
removed  from  the  bridal  chamber,  tried,  and 
lodged  in  the  tanks  for  safety.  Pete  had 
hired  a  shyster  lawyer  and  got  ten  years  in 
Yuma;  Mike  had  plead  his  own  case  and 
escaped  with  only  three.  It  was  this  last 
lesson  that  Pecos  conned  in  his  heart.  When 
Slattery  the  yegg  was  arrested  he  had  feigned 
an  overpowering  drunkenness,  and  though  the 
case  was  all  against  him  —  he  had  been  caught 
in  the  act  of  burglarizing  a  lodging-house  and 
was  loaded  down  with  loot  — •  he  had  neverthe- 
less framed  up  a  good  defence.  With  the 
artless  innocence  of  the  skilled  "moocher"  he  ex- 
plained to  the  court  that  while  under  the  in- 
fluence of  no  less  than  seven  drinks  of  straight 
alcohol  he  had  mistaken  another  gentleman's 
room  for  his  own  and  had  gathered  up  his 
wardrobe  under  the  misapprehension  that  it 
was  his  own.  At  every  attempt  to  prove  his 
culpability  he  had  represented  that,  beyond  the 

[274] 


THE    TEXICAN 

main  facts,  his  mind  was  a  complete  blank, 
at  the  same  time  giving  such  a  witty  descrip- 
tion of  the  paralyzing  effects  of  "Alki"  that 
even  the  district  attorney  had  laughed.  Ac- 
cording to  Mike  that  was  the  way  to  get  off 
easy,  be  polite  and  respect  ful-like  to  the  judge 
and  jury  and  jolly  up  the  prosecuting  at- 
torney—  and  in  this  contention  the  unfortu- 
nate experience  of  Pete  Monat  clearly  bore 
him  out.  Pete  had  made  the  fatal  mistake  of 
hiring,  with  two  months'  back  pay,  a  "sucking 
lawyer"  who  had  so  antagonized  the  district 
attorney  that  that  gentleman  had  become  en- 
raged, making  such  a  red-hot  speech  against 
the  damnable  practice  of  horse-stealing — "a 
crime,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  which,  because 
it  may  leave  the  innocent  owner  of  that  horse 
to  die  of  thirst  on  the  desert,  ought  by  rights 
to  be  made  a  capital  offence"-  -  that  poor  Pete 
was  found  guilty  and  sentenced  before  he  could 
build  up  a  new  defence. 

"Oh,  I  don't  hold  nothin'  agin  you,  Pard- 
ner,"  he  replied,  in  answer  to  Pecos's  solici- 

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THE     TEXICAN 

tude  for  the  influence  of  his  battered  head, 
"the  jury  did  n't  cinch  me  for  my  looks  —  it 's 
that  dam5  narrer-headed  jack-lawyer  that  I 
got  to  thank  f  'r  this.  He  would  n't  let  me  tell 
my  story,  jest  the  way  it  was.  You  know, 
an'  I  know,  that  when  a  man  gits  his  time  on 
the  range  the  boss  is  obligated  to  give  him  a 
mount  to  town.  How  's  a  cowboy  goin'  to  git 
his  riggin'  to  town  —  walk  and  pack  his 
saddle?  Well,  now,  jest  because  I  give  old 
Sage  some  back  talk  and  quit  him  when  he  was 
short-handed  he  told  me  to  walk;  an'  me,  like 
the  dam'  fool  I  was,  I  went  out  and  roped  a 
hoss  instead.  Then,  jest  to  git  even,  he  had 
me  arrested  for  a  hoss-thief.  But  would  this 
pin-head  of  a  lawyer  hear  to  a  straight  talk 
like  that?  No  — he  has  me  plead  'Not 
guilty'  and  swear  I  never  took  the  hoss  —  an' 
you  know  the  rest.  That  district  attorney  is 
a  mean  devil  —  he  won't  let  nobody  stand 
against  him  —  you  might  as  well  plead  'Guilty' 
and  take  the  mercy  of  the  court  as  to  try 
to  buck  against  him.  But  whatever  you  do, 
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THE     TEXICAN 

Pardner,  don't  hire  no  tinhorn  lawyer  —  I 
give  ten  years  of  my  life  to  find  that  out." 
Pete  sighed  and  rubbed  his  rough  hands  to- 
gether wearily  —  it  would  be  long  before  they 
felt  the  rope  and  the  branding  iron  and  the 
hard  usage  of  honest  toil.  A  great  pity  came 
over  Pecos  at  the  thought  of  his  unhappy  lot, 
and  he  treated  him  kindly  before  the  other 
prisoners;  but  all  the  time  a  greater  fear  was 
clutching  at  his  heart.  Pete  had  taken  a  horse, 
but  he  had  burned  a  calf  —  and  Arizona  hates 
a  rustler  worse  than  it  hates  a  horse-thief. 
For  all  his  strength  and  spirit,  he  was  caught 
-  caught  like  a  rat  in  a  trap  —  and  as  the  im- 
minence of  his  fate  came  over  him  he  lost  his 
leonine  bearing  and  became  furtive,  like  the 
rest  of  them.  Outwardly  he  was  the  same, 
and  he  ruled  the  jail  with  a  rod  of  iron,  but 
at  heart  he  was  a  true  prisoner  —  cunning, 
cringing,  watchful,  dangerous  —  all  his  facul- 
ties centred  upon  that  one  thought,  to  escape! 


[277] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  LAW'S  DELAY 

AS  the  first  hot  days  of  summer  came  on, 
the  district  court  of  Geronimo  County 
closed;  the  judge,  having  decided  each  case 
according  to  the  law  and  the  evidence,  hurried 
upon  his  way,  well  satisfied;  the  deputies  took 
a  last  disconsolate  batch  of  prisoners  to  Yuma, 
and  Pecos  Dalhart  sat  down  to  ponder  on  his 
case.  The  tanks  were  nearly  empty  now,  ex- 
cept for  the  drunks  and  vags  that  the  con- 
stables brought  in  and  the  grist  for  the  next 
grand  jury.  It  was  a  dreary  grist,  each  man 
swearing  his  innocence  with  unnatural  warmth 
until  the  general  cynicism  of  the  place  shamed 
him  to  silence.  Pecos  loathed  them,  the  whin- 
ing, browbeaten  slaves.  After  he  had  sounded 
the  depths  of  human  depravity  until  there  was 
no  more  wickedness  to  learn  he  drew  more  and 

[278] 


THE    TEXICAN 

more  aloof  from  his  companions,  thinking  his 
own  thoughts  in  silence.  When  Boone  Mor- 
gan came  in,  or  the  Blade  reporter,  he  con- 
versed with  them,  quietly  and  respectfully  — 
Boone  Morgan  could  speak  a  word  to  the 
judge,  and  Baker  held  the  ear  of  the  great 
public.  They  were  very  kind  to  Pecos  now, 
and  often,  after  some  ingenious  write-up  of 
his  exploits,  crowds  of  visitors  would  come  to 
stare  at  the  grim  rustler  who  ruled  the  Kanga- 
roo Court.  There  were  no  signs  of  the  social 
theorist  about  him  now,  and  the  revolution  was 
a  broken  dream  —  he  could  not  afford  such 
dreams.  Let  the  rich  and  the  free  hold  fast 
to  their  convictions  and  their  faith  —  he  was 
trying  to  get  out  of  jail. 

The  heat  of  midsummer  came  on  apace,  and 
the  sun,  beating  against  the  outer  walls,  turned 
the  close  prison  into  an  oven  by  day  and  a 
black  hole  of  misery  at  night.  The  palpi- 
tating air  seemed  to  press  upon  them,  killing 
the  thought  of  sleep,  and  the  prisoners  moaned 
and  tossed  in  their  bunks,  or  fell  into  fitful 

[279] 


THE    TEXICAN 

slumbers,  broken  by  the  high  insistent  whine 
of  mosquitoes  or  the  curses  of  the  vags.  Of 
curses  there  were  a  plenty  before  the  cool 
weather  came,  and  protests  and  complaints, 
but  none  from  Pecos  Dalhart.  In  the  long 
watches  of  the  night  he  possessed  his  soul  of 
a  mighty  patience,  to  endure  all  things,  if  he 
could  only  go  free.  Even  with  a  jail  mission- 
ary, who  distributed  tracts  and  spoke  bodingly 
of  a  great  punishment  to  come,  he  was  patient ; 
and  the  missionary,  poor  simple  man  that  he 
was,  proffered  him  in  return  the  consolation 
of  religion.  Being  of  a  stiff  necked  and  per- 
verse generation  Pecos  declined  to  confess  his 
sins  —  the  missionary  might  be  subpoenaed  by 
the  prosecution  —  but  he  listened  with  long- 
suffering  calm  to  the  Prodigal  Son,  the  Good 
Samaritan,  and  the  parable  of  the  seeds  that 
were  sown  on  stony  ground.  In  themselves 
the  stories  were  good  —  nor  were  they  strange 
to  Pecos,  for  his  mother  had  been  a  good 
Methodist  —  but  the  preacher  spoiled  them  by 
a  too  pointed  application  of  the  moral  to  his 

[280] 


THE     TEXICAN 

own  unfortunate  case.  Still,  he  let  it  go  — 
anything  was  better  than  listening  to  the  yeggs 
—  and  waited  for  the  sermon  to  end.  There 
was  a  favor  that  he  wanted  to  ask.  Many 
years  ago  —  it  was  at  camp-meeting  and  the 
shouters  were  dancing  like  mad  —  he  had 
promised  his  sainted  mother  to  read  the  Bible 
through  if  she  would  quit  agonizing  over  his 
soul,  but  the  promise  he  never  kept.  Small 
print  was  hard  on  his  young  eyes  that  were 
so  quick  to  see  a  cow,  and  he  put  the  matter 
off  until  such  a  time  as  he  should  break  a  leg 
or  get  sick  or  otherwise  find  time  to  spare. 
Well,  he  had  all  the  time  there  was,  now,  and 
it  would  give  him  something  to  do. 

"Say,  Pardner,"  he  observed,  as  the  mis- 
sionary pressed  a  sheaf  of  tracts  upon  him  at 
parting,  "is  this  the  best  you  can  do?  I  was 
powerful  interested  in  them  stories  —  how 
about  a  Bible?" 

Bibles  were  a  scarce  article  in  those  parts, 
but  Fecos  got  one,  and  after  laying  bets  with 
various  flippant  prisoners,  he  read  it  from 

[281] 


THE     TEXICAN 

cover  to  cover,  religiously.  Then,  just  to  show 
his  bringing  up,  he  went  back  and  read  over 
all  the  big  wars  and  fights  and  the  troubles  of 
Moses  in  the  wilderness.  Still  there  was  time 
to  spare  and  he  read  of  Daniel  and  Nehemiah 
and  the  prophets  who  had  cried  unto  Israel. 
It  was  a  poor  beginning,  but  somehow  when  he 
was  reading  the  Bible  he  forgot  the  heat  and 
the  vileness  of  the  jail  and  won  back  his  self- 
respect.  In  that  long  catalogue  of  priests 
and  prophets  and  leaders  of  the  people  what 
one  was  there,  from  Joseph  to  Jesus,  who  had 
not  been  cast  into  prison?  The  universality 
of  their  fate  seemed  to  cheer  him  and  give  him 
something  in  common  —  perhaps  they  were  of 
some  kin  with  the  apostles  of  the  revolution. 
And  in  the  long,  suffocating  nights  he  would 
think  back  to  the  mud-streaked  adobe  house 
that  he  had  called  home  and  hear  his  mother 
patting  softly  on  her  knees  and  singing:  "Oh, 
come  to  Jesus,  come  to  Jesus  -  '  with  a  little 
Texas  yupe  at  the  end  of  every  line.  So  he 
wore  the  summer's  heat  away,  and  with  the 

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return  of  cool  weather  his  mind  went  back  to 
his  case. 

There  was  no  use  trying  to  do  anything  be- 
fore the  grand  jury,  so  everybody  said;  that 
great  bulwark  of  the  people  generally  indicted 
every  one  that  the  district  attorney  shook  his 
finger  at  and  let  the  judge  find  out  later 
whether  he  was  innocent  —  that  was  his  busi- 
ness, anyway.  Besides  —  whatever  else  he 
did  —  Pecos  was  going  to  be  careful  not  to 
offend  the  district  attorney.  The  sad  case  of 
Pete  Monat,  who  must  have  put  in  an  awful 
summer  at  Yuma,  was  ever  in  his  mind,  and 
while  he  would  not  go  so  far  as  to  plead  guilty 
in  order  to  accommodate  the  choleric  Mr.  Kil- 
kenny, he  was  firmly  resolved  not  to  antagonize 
him  in  the  trial.  He  had  money,  too  —  five 
months'  wages,  deposited  with  the  sheriff - 
but  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  would  not  hire 
a  man  who  could  stand  up  against  District  At- 
torney Kilkenny,  the  terror  of  evil-doers.  As 
a  man,  Shepherd  Kilkenny  was  all  right  —  a 
devoted  husband,  a  loving  father,  all  the  other 

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good  things  you  read  on  a  gravestone  —  but 
as  a  prosecuting  attorney  he  was  a  devil.  At 
every  biennial  election  he  got  all  the  votes  there 
were  on  his  court  record.  He  convicted  every- 
body —  except  a  few  whose  friends  had  worked 
a  rabbit's  foot  for  them  —  and  convicted  them 
beyond  appeal.  That  saved  money  to  the 
county.  His  reputation  for  convictions  was 
so  great  that  most  of  the  petty  criminals  plead 
guilty  and  came  down  like  Davey  Crockett's 
coon,  before  he  had  a  chance  to  shoot.  That 
expedited  the  court  calendar  and  saved  thou- 
sands of  dollars  in  fees  and  witness  expenses 
—  another  good  thing  for  the  honest  tax-payer. 
In  fact,  everything  that  Shepherd  Kilkenny 
did  was  for  the  benefit  of  the  Geronimo  tax- 
payers, and  Yuma  was  crowded  with  convicts 
to  prove  that  he  knew  his  business.  That  was 
what  he  was  hired  for  —  to  convict  law- 
breakers —  and  if  he  let  a  single  guilty  man 
escape  he  was  recreant  to  his  trust.  Kilkenny 
had  a  stern  sense  of  civic  responsibility  —  he 
got  them,  if  it  took  a  leg. 

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There  had  been  a  time  when  Shepherd  Kil- 
kenny believed  that  every  man  who  had  the 
price  was  innocent.  That  was  when,  as  a  ris- 
ing young  lawyer,  he  was  defending  criminals 
in  the  courts ;  and  he  threw  so  many  miscreants 
loose  and  made  such  a  show  of  old  Trusdale, 
the  former  district  attorney,  that  the  commun- 
ity in  a  burst  of  popular  indignation  put  the 
old  man  out  and  gave  Kilkenny  his  job.  At 
this  Kilkenny  brought  out  an  entirely  new  set 
of  adjectives,  changed  all  his  fixed  opinions  in 
a  day,  and,  being  now  in  a  position  to  square 
himself  with  the  real  Law,  which  holds  that  a 
man  is  guilty  until  he  can  prove  himself  in- 
nocent, he  became  a  flaming  sword  against  the 
transgressor.  His  conversion  also  enabled  him 
to  slough  off  the  old  pathetic-fallacy  line  of 
talk  that  he  had  been  called  upon  to  use  in 
pleading  before  a  jury  and  to  adopt  a  more 
dignified  and  denunciatory  style,  a  cross  be- 
tween Demosthenes  and  the  Daniel  Webster 
school.  The  prosperous  life  of  a  politician  jol- 
lied him  up  a  bit,  too;  he  developed  a  certain 

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sardonic  humor  in  the  handling  of  unfavorable 
witnesses,  and  got  off  a  good  one  every  once  in 
a  while  for  the  benefit  of  the  reporters.  But 
there  was  one  thing  that  Shepherd  Kilkenny 
could  not  tolerate,  and  that  was  another  rising 
young  criminal  lawyer  trying  to  defeat  the 
ends  of  justice  and  beat  him  out  of  his  job. 
Yuma  was  full  of  Pete  Monats  who  had  fallen 
victims  to  this  feud,  and  Pecos  resolved  to 
plead  his  case  himself  before  he  would  take 
chances  on  a  sucking  lawyer. 

It  was  while  he  was  in  this  vacillating  mood 
and  feeling  mighty  lonely  and  lost  to  the  world 
that  he  heard  late  one  night  a  familiar  whoop 
from  the  jag-cell,  followed  by  a  fiery  oration  in 
the  vernacular.  It  was  Angy,  down  for  his 
periodical  drunk,  and  Pecos  could  hardly  wait 
to  clasp  him  by  the  hand.  It  was  a  peculiar 
thing  about  Angevine  Thorne  —  the  drunker 
he  got  the  more  his  language  improved,  until 
in  the  ecstasy  of  his  intoxication,  he  often 
quoted  Greek  and  Latin,  or  words  deemed  by 
local  wiseacres  to  be  derived  from  those  sources. 

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Drink  also  seemed  to  clarify  his  vision  and  give 
him  an  exalted  sense  of  truth,  justice,  and 
man's  inhumanity  to  man.  It  had  been  his 
custom  in  the  past  at  this  climacteric  stage  of 
inebriation  to  mount  upon  some  billiard  table 
or  other  frangible  piece  of  saloon  furniture  and 
deliver  temperance  lectures  until  removed  by 
the  police.  But  times  had  changed  with  Ger- 
onimo's  champion  booze-fighter  and  in  his  later 
prepossessions  he  grappled  with  the  mighty 
problem  of  wealth  and  its  relation  to  the  com- 
mon man.  There  are  some  hard  sayings  in 
the  Voice  of  Reason  against  the  privileged 
classes,  but  they  are  all  nicely  considered  in 
relation  to  the  libel  law,  whereas  Angy  had 
no  such  compunctions.  Having  spent  all  his 
money  for  drink  and  received  a  jail  sentence 
for  life,  the  law  had  no  further  terrors  for  him 
and  he  turned  his  eloquence  loose.  It  was  a 
wild  rave  when  Pecos  heard  it,  and  grew  pro- 
gressively more  incoherent;  but  as  he  lay  in 
his  bunk  and  listened  to  the  familiar  appeals  a 
thought  came  to  Pecos  like  an  inspiration  from 

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the  gods  —  why  not  turn  that  stream  of  elo- 
quence into  profitable  channels  and  make 
Angy  his  advocate?  There  was  not  a  voter  in 
Geronimo  who  did  not  know  Babe  Thorne  and 
love  him  for  his  foolishness  —  the  life  sentence 
which  he  suffered  for  conspicuous  drunkenness 
was  but  a  token  of  their  regard,  placing  him 
above  the  level  of  common  ordinary  drunks 
even  as  his  eloquence  placed  him  above  the 
maudlin  orators  with  whom  the  saloons  were 
crowded.  He  was  a  character,  a  standing 
jest  —  and  Arizona  loves  a  joke  better  than 
life  itself.  Above  all,  Angy  was  a  good  fellow 
-  he  could  jolly  the  district  attorney  and  make 
him  laugh!  They  would  win  their  case  and 
then  he  would  be  free  —  free!  Pecos  could 
not  sleep  from  thinking  of  it  and  he  begged 
Bill  Todhunter,  as  a  special  favor,  to  bring 
Babe  in  from  the  jag-cell  at  once. 

"What 's  the  matter?"  inquired  Bill  casu- 
ally, "are  you  gettin'  interested  in  yore  girl? 
I  hear  Old  Crit  has  cut  you  out." 

"Crit   be    damned!"    cried    Pecos.     "Have 

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I  ever  asked  you  for  anything  before?  Well 
then,  throw  him  in  here,  can't  you?" 

The  deputy  did  as  he  was  bid  and  went 
away  —  he  was  not  of  a  prying  disposition  and 
Pecos  had  saved  him  a  lot  of  trouble.  There 
had  never  been  an  alcalde  like  Pecos  Dalhart. 
No,  indeed  —  it  would  rustle  them  to  get  one 
half  as  good  when  he  went  his  way  to  Yuma. 

The  conference  with  Angevine  Thorne,  at- 
torney-at-law,  was  long,  and  private,  but  as 
Angy  sobered  up  he  beheld  greater  and  greater 
possibilities  in  the  matter;  and  when  he  went 
away  he  assured  his  client  that  within  the 
calendar  month  he  should  step  forth  a  free 
man  —  free  as  the  prairie  wind.  He  was  con- 
fident of  it,  and  upon  his  departure  Pecos  gave 
him  fifty  dollars  to  use  with  Jose  Garcia.  Also 
he  was  to  find  Old  Funny-face,  the  mother  of 
the  calf,  if  it  took  the  last  cow  in  the  barn.  But 
all  was  to  be  conducted  quietly,  very  quietly, 
for  if  Old  Crit  ever  got  wind  of  any  defence 
he  would  frame  up  a  case  to  disprove  it.  To 
be  sure,  Jose  Garcia  was  in  debt  several  hun- 

19  [289] 


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dred  dollars  to  Isaac  Crittenden  —  and  afraid 
of  his  life,  to  boot  —  but  for  fifty  dollars  cash 
Joe  would  swear  to  anything,  even  the  truth; 
and  if  by  so  doing  he  got  Pecos  out  —  why, 
there  was  a  man  who  could  protect  him  against 
Crit  and  all  his  cowboys.  It  looked  good  to 
Angevine  Thorne  and,  as  an  especial  induce- 
ment to  Joe  to  stay  put,  he  swore  by  all  the 
saints  to  have  his  life  if  he  dared  to  go  back 
on  his  agreement.  Then,  very  quietly,  he  in- 
stituted a  search  for  Old  Funny-face  and,  hav- 
ing located  her  up  the  river  with  a  tame  bunch 
of  cattle,  he  came  away,  knowing  full  well 
that  he  could  produce  her  at  the  proper  time. 
There  would  be  a  little  surprise  coming  to 
Isaac  Crittenden  when  he  went  to  court  next 
week  and,  being  actuated  by  no  feeling  of  false 
delicacy  in  dealing  with  fcuqh  a  reptile,  Angy 
went  back  to  work  for  him  and  watched  the 
conspiracy  breed. 

It  was  a  constant  source  of  surprise  to  the 
transient  public  to  observe  how  a  man  with 
so  many  disagreeable  qualities  kept  the  same 

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men  working  for  him  year  after  year;  but  to 
those  who  knew  Crittenden  well  it  was  as 
natural  as  hunger  and  thirst.  In  fact,  it  was 
intimately  connected  with  hunger  and  thirst. 
Any  time  that  Joe  Garcia  wanted  to  quit  he 
could  just  tell  his  wife  and  six  children  to  stop 
eating,  tie  his  things  in  a  handkerchief,  and 
walk  down  the  road.  Jose  was  ruled  hy 
hunger  and  the  slavish  peon  spirit  of  a  Mex- 
ican—Babe and  the  cowboys  were  ruled  by 
thirst.  No  matter  how  many  times  he  had 
been  fired  or  quit,  a  man  could  always  get  a 
chance  to  work  for  nothing  with  Crit;  and  so 
long  as  he  spent  all  his  money  at  the  store 
Crittenden  was  even  willing  to  pay  him  good 
wages  in  the  busy  season.  Babe  was  the 
easiest  mark  he  had  as  far  as  money  was  con- 
cerned, and,  being  so  well  educated  withal,  the 
illiterate  cowman  found  him  almost  indispens- 
able as  a  letter-writer  and  book-keeper.  So 
far,  so  good  —  but  why  did  Babe,  with  his  clas- 
sical education,  insist  upon  donating  his  serv- 
ices to  a  man  who  treated  him  so  despitefully? 

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Ah,  it  was  a  hard  question,  but  even  a  vagrant 
likes  to  have  some  place,  no  matter  how  un- 
lovely, which  can  take  the  place  of  a  home. 
Yet  for  the  six  long  months  that  Pecos  had 
lain  in  jail  Angy  had  had  reason  enough  for 
staying  —  Marcelina  needed  him,  and  she 
needed  him  bad. 

Every  month  seemed  to  add  some  new  grace 
and  beauty  to  the  daughter  of  Jose  Garcia  — 
the  primitive  beauty  that  seems  to  bud  like  a 
flower  beneath  the  Arizona  sun;  the  beauty  of 
the  young  Apache  maiden  and  the  slender 
Hija  de  Mejico,  that  comes  to  its  perfection 
so  soon  and  is  doomed  so  often  to  fade  away 
prematurely  before  the  lust  of  men.  In  an- 
other place  Marcelina's  face  might  have  been 
her  fortune,  but  at  Verde  Crossing  it  was  her 
bane.  The  cowboys  lingered  about  the  store 
to  gaze  upon  her  boldly  or  stepped  outside  to 
intercept  her  on  her  way;  and  Joe,  poor  tor- 
toise-brained Joe,  did  not  live  up  to  his  full- 
duty  as  a  father.  The  Teccano  cowboys  were 
a  fierce  breed  and  impatient  of  restraint  — 

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also  they  held  a  Mexican  to  be  something 
below  a  snake.  He  was  afraid  of  them,  though 
he  rolled  his  fat  eyes  and  frowned  —  but  most 
of  all  he  feared  Old  Crit.  Ah,  there  was  a 
man  to  fear  —  OF  Greet  —  and  he  held  him  in 
his  power,  him  and  all  his  little  flock.  Day 
after  day,  as  the  summer  passed,  the  Boss 
kept  after  him,  and  but  for  his  woman  he 
would  have  given  way.  How  she  did  curse 
him,  the  Senora,  his  mujer,  and  how  she  did 
curse  Crit — but  most  of  all  she  cursed  their 
poverty,  which  exposed  her  child  to  such  a  fate. 
Even  the  few  pesos  to  send  her  to  the  school 
were  lacking  —  Marcelina  must  stay  at  Verde 
Crossing  and  fight  against  her  fate.  There 
was  only  one  man  who  would  stand  by  them, 
and  that  was  Babe.  Only  for  the  one  time  in 
six  months  had  Babe  been  drunk,  and  that  was 
when  Crit  was  away.  He  had  left  them  his 
pistols  at  parting  and  hurried  back,  after  he 
had  seen  Pecos  in  the  jail.  Yet  after  all  it 
was  worth  the  risk,  for  Babe  had  brought  back 
money  —  yes,  money,  fifty  dollars  in  bills  — 

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and  he  offered  it  all  to  Jose  if  he  would  stand 
up  and  tell  the  truth.  What  a  coward  —  that 
foolish  Jose !  For  a  week  he  weighed  his  man- 
hood in  the  balance  and  was  afraid  —  and  then 
Babe  had  given  him  two  drinks,  quick,  and 
made  him  promise,  and  given  the  money  to  his 
mujer.  Madre  de  Dios,  it  was  accomplished, 
and  the  day  that  Crittenden  and  his  cowboys 
rode  away  to  Geronimo  to  testify  before  the 
grand  jury  the  Senora  Garcia  followed  far 
behind  in  the  broken-down  buggy,  and  when 
the  town  was  dark  she  drove  in  and  left 
Marcelina  at  the  Sisters'  school. 


[294] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   LAST   CHANCE 

THERE  was  a  hot  time  in  old  Geronimo 
on  the  night  that  Ike  Crittenden  and 
his  cowboys  rode  in,  and  in  spite  of  everything 
he  could  do  three  of  them  wound  up  in  the  jag- 
cell  before  morning.  Nevertheless  he  had 
plenty  of  witnesses  and  to  spare,  for  the  grand 
jury  merely  went  over  the  same  evidence  that 
had  been  taken  before  the  magistrate  and 
handed  down  an  indictment  against  Pecos  Dai- 
hart,  accusing  him  of  feloniously  and  unlaw- 
fully marking,  branding,  or  altering  the  brand 
on  one  neat  animal,  to  wit,  a  spotted  calf,  be- 
longing to  Isaac  Crittenden  of  Verde  Crossing. 
It  was  almost  the  first  case  on  the  calendar 
and  the  arraignment  was  set  for  the  following 
Monday.  Then  Pecos  Dalhart,  defendant, 
slouched  gloomily  back  to  his  cell  and  sat 

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down  to  await  the  issue.  The  howls  of  Ange- 
vine  Thorne,  blended  with  the  hoarse  protests 
of  Grit's  cowboys,  floated  in  to  him  from  the 
jag-cell  and  he  knew  his  faithful  attorney  had 
not  deserted  him,  but  what  a  broken  reed  was 
that  to  lean  on  when  his  whole  future  hung  in 
the  balance!  Even  as  he  listened  he  had  an 
uneasy  fear  that  Angy  was  giving  the  whole 
snap  away  to  the  drunken  cowboys  and  once 
more  he  begged  Bill  Todhunter  to  throw  Babe 
into  the  tanks  where  he  could  look  after  him. 
It  was  at  this  time,  when  things  were  at  their 
worst,  that  Shepherd  Kilkenny,  the  district  at- 
torney, came  down  to  look  into  his  case  and 
find  out  how  he  would  plead. 

He  was  a  very  cautious  man,  Mr.  Kilkenny, 
and  he  never  had  a  man  indicted  unless  he  held 
his  written  confession  or  knew  beyond  the  per- 
adventure  of  a  doubt  that  he  could  convict  him. 
In  the  case  of  Pecos  Dalhart  he  had  been  un- 
usually careful,  for  it  was  the  first  case  of 
cattle  stealing  to  come  before  him  and  most  of 
his  constituents  were  in  the  cow  business ;  there- 

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fore,  not  to  take  any  chances,  he  had  followed 
it  from  the  magistrate's  court  to  the  secret 
chambers  of  the  grand  jury,  and  now  he  was 
going  after  a  confession.  He  came  with  gifts, 
a  brace  of  cigars,  but  Pecos  was  well  supplied 
with  cigarette  makings  and  waved  them  courte- 
ously aside.  Then  they  got  down  to  business. 
"Mr.  Dalhart,"  began  Kilkenny,  "I  'm  the 
district  attorney  and  I  've  come  to  talk  over 
your  case  with  you  —  in  a  friendly  way,  you 
understand.  Ah  —  have  you  engaged  an  at- 
torney? No?  Well,  that  is  hardly  necessary, 
you  know,  but  if  you  do  call  in  a  counsellor  I 
am  sure  he  will  advise  you  to  plead  'Guilty.' 
Ahem  —  yes,  indeed.  There  's  many  a  man 
stole  his  calf  and  got  away  with  it,  but  you 
were  caught  in  the  act  and  observed  by  twenty 
witnesses.  Not  the  ghost  of  a  chance,  you 
see ;  but  if  you  plead  'Guilty'  and  throw  your- 
self upon  the  mercy  of  the  court  it  will  cut 
your  sentence  in  half,  probably  more.  I  'm 
a  friend  of  yours,  Mr.  Dalhart,  and  I  Ve  often 
heard  the  sheriff  speak  of  your  exemplary  char- 

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acter  as  a  prisoner.  All  these  things  are  ap- 
preciated, you  know,  and  I  —  well,  I  '11  do  all 
I  can  for  you  with  the  judge.  Now  all  you 
have  to  do  is  to  sign  this  little  paper  and  — " 

"I  'm  sorry,"  said  Pecos,  thrusting  the 
paper  back,  "and  I  sure  take  it  kindly  of  you, 
Mr.  Kilkenny,  but  I  can't  plead  'Guilty' —  not 
to  please  nobody  —  because  I  'm  not  guilty." 

"Not  guilty!"  The  district  attorney 
laughed.  "Why,  you  were  taken  in  the  act, 
Mr.  Dalhart.  I  never  saw  a  more  conclusive 
line  of  evidence." 

"Well,"  grumbled  Pecos,  "  if  I  was  guilty 
I  'd  sure  plead  'Guilty,'  you  can  bank  on  that. 
But  this  blankety-blank,  Ike  Crittenden,  has 
jest  framed  up  a  lot  of  evidence  to  railroad 
me  to  the  pen  —  and  them  cowboys  of  his 
would  swear  to  anything  for  the  drinks.  You 
would  n't  soak  a  man  on  evidence  like  that, 
would  you,  Mr.  District  Attorney?" 

"I  'd  soak  him  on  any  evidence  I  could  get," 
responded  the  district  attorney  succinctly. 
"You  know  my  reputation,  Mr.  Dalhart  - 

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I  convict  every  man  that  pleads  'Not 
guilty'!" 

"But  s'pose  he  is  n't  guilty!"  cried  Pecos. 

"I  convict  him  anyway!"  replied  the  district 
attorney.  "Are  you  going  to  sign  this,  or  are 
you  going  ahead  like  a  damned  fool  and  get 
the  limit  in  Yuma?" 

"I  won't  sign  it,"  said  Pecos  firmly. 

"Very  well,"  responded  Kilkenny,  closing 
his  little  book  with  a  snap.  He  rose  to  his  full 
height  and  pursed  his  lips  ominously.  "Very 
well,  Mr.  Dalhart!"  he  said,  nodding  and 
blinking  his  eyes.  "Very  well,  sir!"  Then 
he  retired,  leaving  so  much  unsaid  that  it  threw 
Pecos  into  a  panic.  In  a  very  real  picture  he 
could  see  himself  sitting  in  the  shade  of  a  big 
adobe  wall  and  making  State's-prison  bridles 
for  life.  He  could  see  the  guards  pacing  back 
and  forth  on  top  of  the  bastions  and  Pete 
Monat  holding  one  end  of  a  horse-hair  strand 
while  he  swung  a  little  trotter  and  twisted  the 
loose  hairs  into  the  other  end,  forever  and  for- 
ever. It  was  awful.  The  full  sense  of  his  im- 

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pending  doom  rushed  in  upon  him  and  he  laid 
hold  of  the  sodden  Babe  who  was  maundering 
about  the  revolution,  and  shook  him  frantic- 
ally. 

"My  God,  Angy,"  he  cried,  "wake  up  and 
do  something!  Fergit  about  the  common 
people  and  do  something  for  me!  Fergit  that 
you  ever  had  any  principles  and  he'p  me  fight 
that  low-lived  dastard  or  I  '11  go  to  Yuma  for 
life!" 

"The  voice  of  the  people  shall  rule  in  the 
land!"  pronounced  Angy  oracularly. 

"To  hell  with  the  people!"  yelled  Pecos. 
"It 's  the  People  that 's  tryin'  to  send  me  up! 
Do  you  want  me  to  git  twelve  years  for 
brandin'  that  spotted  calf?  Well,  wake  up, 
then,  and  git  yore  wits  to  work!" 

Angy  woke  up,  by  degrees,  but  his  wits  would 
not  work.  The  ecstasy  of  intoxication  was  past 
and  his  mind  was  a  legal  blank  for  the  re- 
mainder of  that  day.  The  day  was  Friday, 
and  Pecos  had  to  plead  on  Monday  — "Guilty" 
or  "Not  guilty."  "Guilty"  meant  six  or  eight 

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years  in  prison;  "Not  guilty"  meant  twelve 
years  —  or  freedom.  It  was  a  gamble,  but  he 
would  risk  it  if  Angy  would  remain  sober 
enough  to  talk.  His  only  chance  of  freedom 
lay  in  his  friend's  misdirected  eloquence,  and 
when  Babe  was  entirely  himself  Pecos  backed 
him  up  into  a  corner  and  talked  to  him  with 
tears  in  his  voice. 

"Never,  never,  never  — "  began  Angy,  hold- 
ing up  his  hand  to  swear;  but  Pecos  stopped 
him  with  a  sign. 

"Nothing  like  that,  Pardner,"  he  said. 
"You  been  breakin'  that  pledge  for  forty 
years.  Jest  look  me  in  the  eye  now  and 
promise  me  you  won't  tech  a  drop  until  I  'm 
free." 

"All  right,  Pecos,"  agreed  Angy,  "I  '11  do  it, 
I  won't  touch  a  drop  till  you  're  free." 

"And  when  I  'm  free,"  continued  Pecos, 
"I  '11  stake  you  to  a  drunk  from  which  Geron- 
imo  will  sure  date  time.  Now  let 's  git  down 
to  business." 

The  details  of  that  campaign  against  the 

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People  were  talked  over  in  hushed  secrecy  and 
when  on  Monday  morning  Pecos  appeared 
before  the  stern  judge  to  plead,  Angevine 
Thorne  stood  just  within  the  rail,  shuffling  his 
worn  hat  nervously. 

"I  will  call  the  case  of  the  People  versus 
Pecos  Dalhart,"  said  the  judge.  "Pecos  Dai- 
hart,  to  the  charge  of  grand  larceny  do  you 
plead  'Guilty'  or  'Not  guilty'?" 

'  'Not  guilty,'  Your  Honor!"  responded 
Pecos. 

"The  defendant  enters  a  plea  of  'Not 
guilty,' '  observed  the"  judge  impassively. 
"Are  you  represented  by  counsel,  Mr.  Dal- 
hart?" 

"No,  Your  Honor,"  replied  Pecos. 

"You  understand,  do  you  not,  that  in  case 
you  are  unable  to  employ  an  attorney  the 
court  will  appoint  one  to  advise  you,  free  of 
charge?" 

"Yes,  Your  Honor,"  answered  Pecos,  "but 
if  it 's  all  the  same  to  you  I  'd  rather  not  have 
a  lawyer.  I  'd  like  to  ask  a  favor,  Judge,  if 

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you  don't  mind.  The  reason  I  don't  want  an 
attorney  appointed  is  that  I  know  very  well 
none  of  these  lawyers  around  here  can  stand 
up  to  the  district  attorney  when  it  comes  to 
a  case  of  law" —  here  Kilkenny  smiled  grimly 
to  himself  and  glanced  at  Mr.  Baker  of  the 
Blade — "but  at  the  same  time,  Judge,  I  do 
want  some  one  to  speak  for  me,  and  I  'm  goin' 
to  ask  you  to  appoint  my  friend  Mr.  Thorne, 
back  there,  as  my  counsellor." 

"Mr.  Thorne?"  inquired  the  judge,  and  as 
Angy  stepped  forward,  smirking  and  bowing, 
a  slight  smile  broke  up  the  fine  legal  lines 
on  the  judicial  brows.  At  no  time  was  Angy 
over-fastidious  about  his  attire,  and  a  night  in 
jail,  particularly  in  the  jag-cell,  is  warranted 
to  spoil  the  appearance  of  the  finest  suit  of 
clothes  that  was  ever  made.  Angy's  clothes 
were  old  and  worn ;  his  shirt  was  greasy  around 
the  neck,  and  his  overalls,  hanging  loosely  about 
his  hips,  piled  up  in  slovenly  rolls  above  his 
shoe-tops ;  his  hat,  from  much  fanning  of  open 
fires,  was  grimed  with  ashes  and  whitened  with 

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splashes  of  sour  dough,  and  his  shiny  bald 
head  and  red  face  told  all  too  plainly  the  story 
of  his  past.  In  the  titter  that  followed  his 
announcement  he  stood  silent,  rolling  his 
bloodshot  eyes  upon  the  audience,  but  as  the 
grinning  bailiff  smote  the  table  for  order  he 
turned  with  the  dignity  of  an  orator  and  ad- 
dressed the  judge. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  said,  beginning  the  set 
speech  which  he  had  prepared,  "I  am  not  un- 
aware that  this  request  on  the  part  of  the  de- 
fendant is  a  little  irregular,  but  if  the  court 
please  I  should  like  to  state  the  reasons  - 

"Just  a  moment!"  cut  in  the  district  at- 
torney brusquely.  "Your  Honor,  I  object  to 
this  man  being  appointed  to  the  position  of 
counsellor  on  the  ground  that  he  is  not  a  duly- 
licensed  attorney  and  therefore  not  competent 
to  practise  in  this  court." 

"As  I  am  tendering  my  services  without 
hope  of  compensation,"  observed  Angy 
suavely,  "and  also  without  submitting  briefs  or 
other  legal  papers,  I  hope  that  the  court  will 

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overlook  this  trifling  irregularity.  The  law 
referred  to  by  the  district  attorney,  as  applied 
to  this  case,  was  intended  solely  to  protect  the 
defendant  in  his  rights,  the  inference  being 
that  no  one  not  a  regularly  practising  attorney 
is  competent  to  adequately  represent  the  de- 
fendant against  the  learned  district  at- 
torney"—  Angy  bowed  to  that  gentleman  — 
"but  at  the  same  time,  Your  Honor,  I  wish 
to  say  that  in  days  gone  by  I  have  stood 
before  the  bar"-  -  the  bailiff  struck  his  gavel 
to  quiet  the  sudden  laughter  -  -"I  have  stood 
before  the  bar  of  justice,  Your  Honor,  and  I 
have  stood  there,  sir,  not  as  Angevine  Thorne, 
the  drunkard,  but  as  a  regular  practitioner  in 
that  court.  I  submit,  Your  Honor,  that  I 
am  fully  qualified,  both  by  past  experience  and 
present  information,  to  represent  Mr.  Dalhart 
in  this  unfortunate  case!" 

A  murmur  of  astonishment  passed  around 
the  room  at  this  revelation  of  his  past ;  for  while 
Angevine  Thorne  had  been  about  Geronimo, 
drunk  and  sober,  for  over  twenty  years,  he  had 

20  [305] 


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never  referred  except  in  the  vaguest  terms  to 
the  life  which  he  had  left  behind.  It  struck 
wonder  into  the  breasts  of  the  court-room  bums, 
many  of  whom  had  shared  the  jag-cell  with  him 
in  times  past,  and  Mr.  Baker  of  the  Blade  sank 
down  into  a  seat  and  began  to  write  hurriedly 
upon  his  pad;  but  Shepherd  Kilkenny,  with  a 
sudden  premonition  of  what  Angy's  "present 
information"  might  lead  to,  did  not  yield  him- 
self to  any  such  puny  emotion  as  surprise.  He 
was  a  fighter,  and  a  sure-thing  fighter  to  boot. 

"Your  Honor!"  he  cried,  "I  wish  to  protest 
most  — 

"Objection  is  overruled!"  interposed  the 
judge.  "I  see  no  reason  why  Mr.  Thorne 
should  not  conduct  this  case  if  the  defendant 
so  wishes,  and  the  clerk  will  enter  him  accord- 
ingly. Would  Wednesday  be  too  soon  for  you 
to  prepare  your  argument,  Mr.  Thorne?  Is 
it  satisfactory  to  you,  Mr.  Kilkenny?  Very 
well,  then,  I  will  set  the  case  for  Wednesday, 
the  eighth  of  October,  at  ten  A.  M.  Call  the 
next  case,  Mr.  Bailiff!" 

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THE     TEXICAN 

The  bailiff  called  it,  still  smiling,  and  in  the 
pause  half  the  occupants  of  the  court-room 
boiled  out  onto  the  court-house  lawn  and  gave 
vent  to  their  pent-up  emotions.  Babe  Thorne 
was  going  to  buck  Kilkenny  and  plead  a  case 
in  court!  He  would  make  an  impassioned  ap- 
peal and  raise  Cain  with  Ike  Crittenden's 
witnesses  —  it  would  be  an  event  never  to  be 
forgotten!  Still  laughing  they  scattered 
through  the  town,  and  soon  men  came  hurrying 
forth  from  the  different  saloons  to  verify  the  re- 
port ;  they  gathered  in  a  crowd  by  the  sheriff's 
office  and,  as  the  word  spread  that  it  was  true, 
gangs  of  cowboys  and  men  on  livery-stable 
plugs  went  dashing  down  the  streets,  whooping 
and  laughing  and  crying  the  news  to  their 
friends.  It  was  a  new  excitement  —  some- 
thing doing  —  and  the  way  an  Arizona  town 
will  take  on  over  some  such  trifling  event  is 
nothing  short  of  scandalous.  Within  two  hours 
the  leisure  male  population  of  Geronimo  was 
divided  into  two  hostile  camps  —  those  who 
would  get  Babe  drunk  before  the  event  and 

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THE     TEXICAN 

those  who  would  keep  him  sober  and  have  him 
take  a  fall  out  of  Kilkenny.  On  the  one  side  it 
was  argued  that,  unless  he  was  properly  ginned 
up,  Babe  would  not  do  justice  to  the  occasion; 
but  cooler  heads  won  on  the  proposition  that 
the  judge  would  bar  him  if  he  got  drunk  and 
hollered,  and  a  committee  of  prominent  citi- 
zens was  organized  to  protect  him  from  him- 
self. 

Being  quick  to  see  the  news  value  of  the  in- 
cident the  Blade  printed  an  exclusive  inter- 
view with  Angevine  Thorne  —  formerly  of  the 
Kentucky  bar  —  and  announced  that  the  trial 
would  be  covered  in  detail  by  "our  Mr. 
Baker."  A  series  of  Communications,  writ- 
ten under  pressure  in  the  card-rooms  of  various 
casinos,  expressed  the  greatest  indignation  at 
the  "dastardly  attempt  of  a  certain  interested 
party  to  debar  Mr.  Thorne  from  the  trial,"  and 
the  hope  that  this  exhibition  of  professional 
jealousy  would  receive  the  rebuke  it  so  richly 
deserved.  In  an  editorial  the  Daily  Blade 
spoke  at  some  length  of  the  rare  eloquence  of 

[SOS] 


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"our  gifted  fellow-citizen,  Colonel  Thorne," 
and  felicitated  Alcalde  Dalhart  upon  the 
acumen  he  had  shown  in  retaining  counsel. 
Everything  goes,  in  a  case  like  that,  and  the 
Blade  played  it  up  to  the  limit. 

As  night  came  on  a  select  circle  of  visitors 
gathered  at  the  county  jail  to  witness  the 
kangaroo  trial  of  two  more  of  Grit's  cowboys 
who  had  unwittingly  placed  themselves  in  the 
power  of  Pecos  Dalhart.  The  summary  pun- 
ishment of  the  first  three  —  the  ones  who  had 
occupied  the  jag-cell  with  Angevine  Thorne 
—  had  been  heralded  far  and  wide  as  an  ex- 
ample of  poetic  justice,  but  the  grim  humor  of 
this  last  arraignment  set  the  town  in  an  up- 
roar. Within  two  days  these  same  booze- 
fighting  cowboys  would  appear  against  him  in 
the  upper  court,  but  of  that  event  Pecos  Dal- 
hart took  no  thought  and  he  kangarooed  them 
to  a  finish.  It  was  good  business,  as  the  ac- 
tors say,  and  won  him  many  a  friend,  for  Ari- 
zona loves  a  sport  —  but  after  they  had  been 
spread-eagled  over  a  chair  and  received  twenty 

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blows  for  contempt  of  court,  the  cowboys  were 
ready  to  take  their  oath  to  anything.  That 
was  it  —  Pecos  might  win  the  hearts  of  the 
people  and  still  go  down  before  the  law  and 
the  evidence.  Only  two  things  cheered  him  on 

—  Angy  and  Bill  Todhunter  had  gone  up  the 
river  for  Old  Funny-face,  and  Joe  Garcia  was 
in  town.     After  Crit  had  sworn  himself  into 
perdition   over   the    calf   they   would   spring 
Funny-face  on  him  —  Mexican  brands  and  all 

—  and  show  that  he  was  a  liar.     Then  Jose 
Garcia  would  testify  to  the  sale  of  Funny- 
face  and  her  calf  and  the  rest  would  go  off 
in  a  canter.     It  was  a  pleasing  dream,  and 
Pecos  indulged  it  to  the  full,  for  it  was  the  only 
hope  he  had.     But  the  next  morning  he  was 
nervous. 

It  was  the  day  before  his  trial  and  even  his 
six  months  in  jail  had  not  taught  him  to  be 
patient.  As  soon  as  the  cells  were  unlocked 
he  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  corridor  like 
a  caged  lion,  scowling  and  muttering  to  him- 
self. To  the  stray  visitors  who  dropped  in  he 

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was  distant  but  civil,  as  befits  a  man  who  must 
act  his  part,  but  all  the  time  a  growing  un- 
easiness was  gnawing  at  his  heart  and  he 
looked  past  them  to  the  outer  door.  Hours 
dragged  by  and  his  uneasiness  changed  into 
despair;  he  hurled  himself  upon  his  bunk  and 
was  lying  with  his  haggard  face  to  the  bars 
when  the  jail  deputy  entered  and  gazed  in 
upon  him  curiously. 

"They  's  a  lady  out  here  to  see  you,"  he 
whispered,  laying  his  finger  along  his  nose 
with  an  air  of  roguish  secrecy,  "shall  I  bring 
her  in?  She  's  got  something  she  wants  to 
give  you!" 

A  vision  of  the  unbalanced  females  who  had 
been  bringing  flowers  to  a  murderer  came  over 
Pecos  and  he  debated  swiftly  with  himself 
whether  to  accept  this  last  humiliation  or  plead 
a  sudden  indisposition. 

"She's  been  waiting  around  all  the  morn- 
ing," continued  the  deputy.  "Kinder  shy,  I 
reckon  —  shall  I  bring  'er  in?  She  's  a  Mex!" 

A  Mex!  The  word  shocked  Pecos  like  a 
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blow;  it  made  him  glad,  and  then  it  made  him 
angry. 

"Well,  what 's  the  matter  with  a  Mex?"  he 
demanded  sharply.  "Ain't  a  Mexican  got  no 
rights  in  this  dam'  jail?  I  guess  she  's  as  good 
as  any  white  woman  —  show  her  in!" 

He  waited  in  palpitating  silence,  and  when 
the  soft  rustle  of  skirts  sounded  down  the  cor- 
ridor his  heart  stopped  beating  entirely.  Then 
Marcelina  pressed  her  face  against  the 
screened  bars  and  gazed  wistfully  into  the 
darkened  cell.  She  had  grown  taller  since  he 
last  saw  her  and  her  dark  eyes  had  taken  on  a 
look  of  infinite  melancholy;  the  rare  promise 
of  her  youth  had  flowered  suddenly  in  his  ab- 
sence and  she  stood  before  him  a  woman. 
Often  in  his  dreams  he  had  thought  of  her,  but 
always  as  the  black-eyed  girl,  saucy  and  fugi- 
tive as  a  bird,  who  had  bewitched  him  with  her 
childish  graces;  now  she  peered  in  at  him 
through  the  prison  bars  with  the  eyes  of  a 
woman  who  has  suffered  and  found  her  soul. 
For  a  moment  she  gazed  into  the  darkness, 

[312] 


She  laid  a  brown  hand  against  the  bars  as  if  in  protest 
and  motioned  him  nearer  the  screen 


5,1!  • 


THE     TEXICAN 

and  then  she  drew  back  involuntarily.  The 
Pecos  she  had  known  was  a  grown-up  boy, 
grim  and  quick  in  speech  but  full  of  the  reck- 
less fire  of  youth;  a  dashing  cowboy,  guiding 
his  horse  by  a  touch  of  the  hand  and  riding, 
riding,  always.  Here  was  a  hard-faced  man, 
pale  and  bowed  by  confinement,  and  his  eyes 
were  like  a  starved  animal's.  She  started  and 
bit  her  lip. 

"Are  you  Paycos?"  she  asked  timidly. 

The  bitterness  of  his  fate  swept  over  Pecos 
at  the  words  —  he  looked  down  at  his  crum- 
pled clothes,  his  outworn  boots,  and  faded  shirt 
and  rumbled  in  his  throat. 

"No,  Marcelina,"  he  said,  "I  'm  only  a 
caged  wolf  —  a  coyote  that  the  vaqueros  have 
roped  and  tied  and  fastened  to  a  tree.  I  'm  a 
hard-looker,  all  right  —  how  'd  you  come  to 
find  me?" 

She  laid  a  brown  hand  against  the  bars  as 
if  in  protest  and  motioned  him  nearer  the 
screen. 

"I  have  only  been  in  town  four  days,"  she 

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said  hurriedly.  "All  summer  I  was  shut  up 
at  Verde,  and  Ol'  Greet  —  ah,  that  bad,  ba-ad 
man!  My  mother  took  me  to  school  the  day 
he  come  to  Geronimo.  I  am  'f raid,  Paycos  - 
but  this  morning  I  run  away  to  see  you.  The 
seesters  will  be  hunt  for  me  now.  Look  Pay- 
cos" —  she  thrust  her  hand  into  the  bosom  of 
her  dress  and  drew  forth  a  small  bundle, 
wrapped  in  a  blue  silk  handkerchief-  -ffCui- 
dado,  be  careful,"  she  whispered;  "when  I 
keess  you  good-bye  at  the  door  I  weel  put  thees 
een  your  hand  —  ssst!"  She  turned  and 
looked  up  the  corridor  where  the  deputy  was 
doing  the  Sherlock.  He  was  a  new  man  — 
the  jail  deputy  —  just  helping  out  during  the 
session  of  the  court  and  correspondingly  im- 
pressed with  his  own  importance.  Nothing 
larger  than  a  darning-needle  could  be  passed 
through  the  heavy  iron  screen,  but  all  the  same 
he  kept  his  eye  on  them,  and  when  he  saw  the 
quick  thrust  of  her  hand  all  the  suspicions  of 
the  amateur  sleuth  rushed  over  him  at  once. 

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"Hey!  What 's  that?"  he  demanded,  strid- 
ing down  the  run-around.  "What  you  got  hid 
there,  eh?"  He  ogled  Marcelina  threaten- 
ingly as  he  stood  over  her  and  she  shrank  be- 
fore his  glance  like  a  school-girl.  "Come, 
now,"  he  blustered,  "show  me  what  that  is  or 
I  '11  take  it  away  from  you.  We  don't  allow 
anything  to  be  passed  in  to  the  prisoners!" 

"She  can't  pass  nothin'  through  here!"  in- 
terposed Pecos,  tapping  on  the  screen.  "You 
have  n't  got  nothin',  have  you,  Marcelina?" 

"Well,  I  saw  her  hide  something  blue  in  her 
dress  just  now,"  persisted  the  jailer,  "and  I 
want  to  see  it,  that 's  all!" 

"It  was  —  it  was  only  a  handkerchief!" 
sobbed  Marcelina,  clutching  at  her  breast. 
"No,  no!  Eet  is  mine  —  he  —  he  geev  it  to 
me!  You  can  not-  "  she  choked,  and  backed 
swiftly  toward  the  door.  Like  a  panther 
Pecos  whipped  out  of  his  cell  and  sprang 
against  the  corridor  grating,  but  she  was  gone. 
The  deputy  made  a  futile  grab  as  she  darted 

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away  from  him  and  sprang  after  her,  but  she 
swung  the  great  door  in  his  face  and  sped  like 
a  deer  down  the  hall.  The  next  moment  she 
was  gone,  leaving  Pecos  and  the  deputy  to 
have  it  out  together. 

"Aha!"  cried  the  deputy  vengefully,  "you 
will  try  to  smuggle  things  in,  will  you?  I  '11 
report  this  matter  to  Mr.  Morgan  at  once!" 

"Well,  report  it,  then,  you  low-flung  hound!" 
wailed  Pecos,  "report  it,  and  be  damned  to 
you !  But  if  I  was  outside  these  bars  I  'd  beat 
you  to  death  for  this!"  They  raged  up  and 
down  the  grating,  snarling  at  each  other  like 
dogs  that  fight  through  a  lattice,  and  even 
when  Boone  Morgan  came  and  called  them 
down  Pecos  would  not  be  appeased. 

"He  scairt  my  girl  away!"  he  cried,  scowl- 
ing menacingly  at  the  raw  deputy.  "She  come 
to  give  me  a  handkerchief  and  he  jumped  at 
her.  I  '11  fix  him,  the  dastard,  if  ever  I  git  a 
chance!"  And  so  he  raged  and  stormed  until 
they  went  away  and  left  him,  mystified.  To 
Boone  Morgan  it  seemed  as  if  his  alcalde  was 

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raising  a  row  out  of  all  proportion  to  his  griev- 
ance, but  that  was  because  Pecos  could  not 
explain  his  woes.  Marcelina  had  promised  to 
kiss  him  good-bye,  and  the  damned  deputy  had 
intervened! 


[317] 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  LAW  AND  THE  EVIDENCE 

AS  the  rising  sun  poured  its  flood  of 
glorious  light  into  the  court-house 
square  and  the  janitor,  according  to  his  cus- 
tom, threw  open  the  court-room  doors  to  sweep, 
there  was  a  scuffling  of  eager  feet  from  with- 
out and  the  swift-moving  pageantry  of  the 
Dalhart  trial  began.  A  trio  of  bums  who 
had  passed  the  night  al  fresco  on  the  park 
benches  hustled  past  the  astounded  caretaker 
and  bestowed  themselves  luxuriously  on  the 
front  seats.  As  the  saloons  opened  up  and 
discharged  their  over-night  guests  others  of 
the  brotherhood  drifted  in  and  occupied  the 
seats  behind,  and  by  the  time  the  solid  citizens 
of  Geronimo  had  taken  care  of  their  stock, 
snatched  their  breakfasts,  and  hurried  to  the 
scene  there  was  standing  room  only  in  the 

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teeming  chamber  of  justice.  Only  the  special 
venire  of  jurymen  took  their  time  in  the  mat- 
ter and  the  sweating  bailiff  had  to  pass  them 
in  through  the  side  door  in  order  to  get  them 
seated  inside  the  railing.  At  nine-thirty 
Boone  Morgan  brought  in  the  defendant, 
freshly  shaven  and  with  his  hair  plastered 
down  across  his  forehead,  and  sat  with  him 
near  the  jail  door.  It  was  all  in  the  line  of 
duty,  but  there  were  those  who  remarked  that 
it  was  right  clever  of  old  Boone  to  throw  in 
that  way  with  his  jail  alcalde.  Some  people 
would  have  put  the  nippers  on  him  for  the 
cow-thief  that  he  was,  and  chained  him  to  a 
deputy.  Behind  them,  the  cynosure  of  all 
eyes,  sat  the  counsel  for  the  defendant,  Ange- 
vine  Thorne,  his  round  baby  face  illuminated 
with  the  light  of  a  great  resolve.  On  that  day 
he  was  going  to  save  his  friend  from  prison  or 
climb  spider-webs  in  the  attempt.  A  hush 
fell  over  the  assembly  as  the  hour  of  trial  drew 
near  and  only  the  gaunt  figure  of  Shepherd 
Kilkenny,  pacing  up  and  down  before  the 

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empty  jury-box,  suggested  the  battle  that 
was  to  come.  The  rest  was  as  pathetic  as  the 
Angelus. 

The  soft  morning  breeze  breathed  in  through 
the  windows  and  as  Pecos  glimpsed  the  row 
of  horses  tied  to  the  hitching  rack  he  filled  his 
lungs  deep  with  the  sweet  air,  and  sighed. 
The  invalid  who  has  been  confined  to  his  room 
longs  vaguely  for  the  open  air,  but  to  the 
strong  man  of  action,  shut  up  for  months  in 
a  close  cell,  the  outer  world  seems  like  a  dream 
of  paradise  and  he  sees  a  new  heaven  in  the 
skies.  In  the  tense  silence  of  waiting  the 
tragedy  in  his  face  afflicted  the  morbid  crowd 
and  made  them  uneasy;  they  shifted  their  eyes 
to  the  stern,  fighting  visage  of  the  district  at- 
torney and  listened  hopefully  for  the  clock. 
It  struck,  slowly  and  with  measured  pauses, 
and  as  the  last  stroke  sounded  through  the  hall 
the  black  curtain  behind  the  bench  parted 
and  the  judge  stepped  into  court.  Then  in- 
stantly the  sheriff's  gavel  came  down  upon  the 
table ;  the  People  rose  before  the  person  of  the 

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Law,  and  in  sonorous  tones  Boone  Morgan  re- 
peated the  ancient  formula  for  the  calling  of 
the  court. 

"Oyez!  Oyez!  Oyez!  The  District  Court 
of  Geronimo  County  is  now  in  session!" 

The  judge  threw  off  his  robes  and  sat  down 
and  as  the  audience  sank  back  into  their 
crowded  seats  he  cast  one  swift,  judicial  glance 
at  the  defendant,  the  clerk,  and  the  district  at- 
torney and  called  the  case  of  Pecos  Dalhart, 
charged  with  the  crime  of  grand  larceny. 
With  the  smoothness  of  well-worn  machinery 
the  ponderous  wheels  of  justice  began  to  turn, 
never  halting,  never  faltering,  until  the  forms 
prescribed  by  law  had  been  observed.  One 
after  the  other,  the  clerk  called  the  names  of 
the  forty  talesmen,  writing  each  name  on  a  slip 
of  paper  as  the  owner  answered  "Here";  then 
at  a  word  from  the  judge  he  placed  the  slips  in 
a  box  and  shook  out  twelve  names  upon  the 
table.  As  his  name  was  called  and  spelled 
each  talesman  rose  from  his  seat  and  sham- 
bled over  to  the  jury-box,  turning  his  solemn 

21  [321] 


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face  from  the  crowd.  They  held  up  their  right 
hands  and  swore  to  answer  truthfully  all  ques- 
tions relative  to  their  qualifications  as  jurors, 
and  sat  down  to  listen  to  the  charges;  then, 
after  reading  the  information  upon  which  the 
accusations  avere  based,  the  district  attorney 
glanced  shrewdly  at  the  counsel  for  defendant 
and  called  the  first  juryman.  The  battle  had 
begun. 

The  first  talesman  was  a  tall,  raw-boned 
individual  with  cowman  written  all  over  him, 
and  the  district  attorney  was  careful  not  to 
ask  his  occupation.  He  wanted  a  jury  of 
twelve  cowmen,  no  less;  and,  knowing  every 
man  in  the  venire  either  by  sight  or  reputation, 
he  laid  himself  out  to  get  it. 

"Mr.  Rambo,"  he  began,  "do  you  know  the 
defendant  in  this  case?"  He  indicated  Pecos 
Dalhart  with  a  contemptuous  wave  of  the  hand, 
and  Mr.  Rambo  said  he  did  not.  "Know  any- 
thing about  this  case?" 

"Only  what  I  read  in  the  papers,"  responded 
the  cowman  dryly. 

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"You  don't  believe  everything  you  read,  do 
you,  Mr.  Rambo?  If  you  were  passed  for  a 
juror  you  would  n't  let  anything  you  have  read 
influence  your  mind,  if  it  was  proven  that  the 
defendant  was  guilty,  would  you?" 

"No,  sir!" 

"If  I  should  prove  to  your  satisfaction  that 
the  defendant  here" —  another  contemptuous 
wave  of  the  hand  — "had  wilfully  and  feloni- 
ously stolen  and  branded  the  animal  in  ques- 
tion, what  would  your  verdict  be  — 'Guilty'  or 
'Not  guilty'?" 

"W'y  —  er— 'Guilty'!" 

"Pass  the  juror!"  snapped  the  district  at- 
torney, and  then  he  looked  at  the  counsel  for 
the  defendant  as  if  imploring  him  not  to  waste 
any  of  the  court's  valuable  time. 

"Mr.  Rambo,"  began  Angy,  singing  the 
words  in  a  childlike,  embarrassed  manner,  "you 
are  engaged  in  the  business  of  raising  cattle, 
are  you  not?" 

The  district  attorney  winced  at  this,  but 
Angevine  Thorne  did  not  take  advantage  of 

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his  discovery.  He  also  wanted  a  jury  of 
twelve  cowmen,  though  he  did  not  show  his 
hand. 

"Very  good,"  he  observed,  "and  I  suppose, 
Mr.  Rambo,  that  you  are  acquainted  with  the 
law  in  this  case  which  makes  it  a  felony  for 
any  man  to  mark  or  brand  the  stock  of  another 
man?  Very  good.  Have  you  any  prejudice 
against  that  law,  Mr.  Rambo?  You  believe 
that  it  should  be  enforced  impartially,  do  you 
not  —  against  the  rich  as  well  as  the  poor? 
Very  good.  Pass  the  juror!" 

For  a  moment  Shepherd  Kilkenny  could 
hardly  believe  his  ears.  The  drift  of  every 
one  of  the  questions  had  led  naturally  up  to  a 
challenge  and  yet  at  the  end  Angy  had  passed 
the  juror.  He  glanced  quickly  at  the  inno- 
cent face  of  his  opponent,  opened  his  mouth 
to  speak,  and  then  hurried  on  with  his  examina- 
tion. The  second  man  was  interested  in  the 
cattle  business,  too;  and  when  Angy  passed 
him  the  judge  felt  called  upon  to  speak. 

"You  know,  do  you  not,  Mr.  Thorne,"  he 

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said,  "that  it  is  your  privilege  to  excuse  any 
juror  whose  occupation  or  condition  of  mind 
might  indicate  a  prejudice  against  your  cli- 
ent?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  Your  Honor,"  replied  Mr. 
Thorne,  suavely,  "but  I  have  perfect  confi- 
dence in  the  integrity  of  the  two  gentlemen 
just  passed.  I  feel  sure  that  they  will  do  full 
justice  to  Mr.  Dalhart." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  His  Honor,  "let  the 
examination  proceed!" 

With  all  the  address  of  a  good  tactician  who 
sees  that  his  opponent  has  mistaken  a  two-spot 
for  an  ace,  Shepherd  Kilkenny  flew  at  his 
task,  but  each  time  that  Angy  passed  one  of 
his  cowmen  he  paused  just  the  fraction  of  a 
second,  glanced  apprehensively  about  the  room, 
and  rubbed  his  chin  thoughtfully.  The  de- 
fence was  playing  right  into  his  hand,  but  he 
did  n't  know  whether  he  liked  it  or  not.  When 
it  came  to  the  peremptory  challenges  he  ex- 
cused two  health-seekers  and  a  mining  man, 
but  Thorne  did  not  challenge  a  man.  Once 

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more  the  clerk  shook  the  names  out  of  his  box 
and  within  half  an  hour  the  district  attorney 
had  the  very  jury  he  wanted  —  every  man  of 
them  interested  in  the  cattle  business  and 
ready  to  cinch  a  rustler  as  they  would  kill  a 
rattlesnake.  It  seemed  almost  too  good  to  be 
true.  Even  the  staid  judge  was  concerned, 
for  he  had  a  sober  sense  of  justice  and  Angy's 
appointment  had  been  slightly  irregular;  but 
after  a  long  look  at  that  individual  he  mo- 
tioned for  the  trial  to  proceed.  The  evidence 
was  all  against  the  defendant  anyway,  and  he 
could  cut  off  a  year  or  two  on  the  sentence  to 
make  amends. 

"Swear  the  jurors!"  he  said,  and  holding  up 
their  rope-scarred  hands  and  looking  coldly 
across  the  room  at  the  alleged  rustler,  the 
twelve  cowmen  swore  to  abide  by  the  law  and 
the  evidence  and  a  true  verdict  find.  Then 
the  district  attorney  pulled  his  notes  from  his 
hip-pocket  as  a  man  might  draw  a  deadly 
weapon  and  began  his  opening  statement  to  the 
jury. 

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"Your  Honor  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury," 
he  said,  "in  the  case  of  the  People  of  the 
Territory  of  Arizona  versus  Pecos  Dalhart,  we 
shall  show  that  on  or  about  the  eighth  day  of 
May  the  said  Pecos  Dalhart  did  wilfully,  fe- 
loniously, and  unlawfully  pursue,  rope,  and 
brand  a  calf,  said  calf  being  the  property  of 
Isaac  Crittenden  of  Verde  Crossing,  Territory 
of  Arizona;  that  the  said  Pecos  Dalhart  was 
arrested  and,  upon  being  taken  before  a  mag- 
istrate, he  did  plead  'Not  guilty'  and  was 
held  for  the  grand  jury,  which  handed  down  an 
indictment  against  him;  that  upon  being  ar- 
raigned before  the  judge  he  did  plead  'Not 
guilty'  and  was  remanded  for  trial  upon  the 
crime  charged  in  the  indictment,  to  wit :  —  that 
he  did  feloniously  and  unlawfully  mark,  brand, 
or  alter  the  brand  on  a  neat  animal,  to  wit,  one 
red-and-white  spotted  calf,  said  calf  being  the 
property  of  Isaac  Crittenden,  of  Verde  Cross- 
ing, Territory  of  Arizona,  contrary  to  the 
form,  force,  and  effect  of  the  statute  in  such 
case  made  and  provided  and  against  the  peace 

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and  dignity  of  the  People  of  the  Territory  of 
Arizona.  Mr.  Crittenden,  will  you  please  take 
the  stand!" 

All  the  other  witnesses  had  been  relegated  to 
the  jury -room,  where  they  would  be  beyond 
the  sound  of  the  court,  but  being  the  complain- 
ing witness  Isaac  Crittenden  was  entitled  to 
remain  and  he  sat  just  behind  the  district  at- 
torney, fumbling  with  the  high  collar  that 
galled  his  scrawny  neck  and  rolling  his  evil 
eye  upon  the  assemblage.  As  he  rose  up  from 
his  place  and  mounted  the  witness  stand  a  rum- 
ble of  comment  passed  through  the  hall  and 
the  sheriff  struck  his  gavel  sharply  for  order. 

"Swear  the  witness,  Mr.  Clerk,"  directed 
the  judge,  and  raising  his  right  hand  in  the 
air  Isaac  Crittenden  rose  and  faced  the  court, 
looking  a  trifle  anxious  and  apprehensive,  as 
befits  one  who  is  about  to  swear  to  a  lie.  Also, 
not  being  used  to  actions  in  court,  he  enter- 
tained certain  illusions  as  to  the  sanctity  of  an 
oath,  illusions  which  were,  however,  speedily 
banished  by  the  professional  disrespect  of  the 

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clerk.  Reaching  down  under  the  table  for  a 
penholder  which  he  had  dropped  and  holding 
one  hand  weakly  above  his  head  he  recited  with 
parrot-like  rapidity  the  wearisome  formula  of 
the  oath:  —  "Do  you  solemnly  swear  that  the 
evidence  you  are  about  to  give  in  the  case  of 
the  People  versus  Pecos  Dalhart  shall  be  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  s'  elpyougod?" 

Crittenden  blinked  his  good  eye  and  sat 
down.  There  was  nothing  very  impressive 
about  the  proceeding,  but  all  the  same  he  was 
liable  for  perjury. 

"Calling  your  attention  to  the  eighth  day  of 
May,  of  the  present  year,  where  were  you  on 
that  day,  Mr.  Crittenden?"  It  was  the  first 
gun  in  the  real  engagement  and  the  surging 
crowd  about  the  doors  quit  scrouging  for  a 
view  and  poised  their  heads  to  listen.  The 
voice  of  the  district  attorney  was  very  quiet 
and  reassuring,  and  Isaac  Crittenden,  taking 
his  cue,  answered  with  the  glib  readiness  of  a 
previous  understanding. 

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"I  was  gathering  cattle  with  my  cowboys 
near  my  ranch  at  Verde  Crossing." 

"And  upon  returning  to  your  home  did  you 
encounter  any  one  in  the  deep  arroyo  which 
lies  above  your  ranch?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  responded  Crittenden,  "I  come 
across  Pecos  Dalhart." 

"Is  this  the  gentleman  to  whom  you  refer?" 
inquired  Kilkenny,  pointing  an  accusing 
thumb  toward  Pecos.  "Very  good,  then  — 
you  identify  the  defendant.  Now,  Mr.  Crit- 
tenden,  what  was  the  defendant  doing  at  that 
time?" 

"He  had  a  spotted  calf  of  mine  strung  out 
by  a  little  fire  and  was  alterin'  the  brand  with 
a  runnin'  iron."  Old  Grit's  eye  wandered  in- 
stinctively to  Pecos  Dalhart  as  he  spoke  and 
gleamed  with  a  hidden  fire,  but  his  face  was  as 
expressionless  as  a  death  mask. 

"I  offer  the  following  animal  in  evidence," 
said  the  district  attorney,  beckoning  toward 
the  side  door.  "Bring  in  the  exhibit !"  And  as 
Bill  Todhunter  appeared,  sheepishly  leading 

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the  spotted  calf,  which  had  been  boarded  all 
summer  in  town,  he  threw  out  his  hand  dra- 
matically and  hissed : 

"Do  you  identify  this  animal?  Is  that  the 
calf?" 

"I  do!"  responded  Crit.  "It  is  the  same  ani- 
mal!" 

"That's  all!"  announced  Kilkenny,  and 
with  a  grin  of  triumph  he  summoned  the  hawk- 
eyed  jurymen  to  inspect  the  brand.  There  it 
was,  written  on  the  spotted  side  of  the  calf,  in 
ineffaceable  lines  —  the  plain  record  of  Pecos 
Dalhart's  crime,  burned  with  his  own  hands. 
Across  the  older  scar  of  Isaac  Crittenden's 
brand  there  ran  a  fresh-burnt  bar,  and  below 
the  barred  Spectacle  was  a  Monkey-wrench, 
seared  in  the  tender  hide.  To  a  health-seeker 
or  a  mining  man  the  significance  of  those 
marks  might  be  hidden,  but  the  twelve  cowmen 
on  the  jury  read  it  like  a  book.  Only  one 
thing  gave  them  a  passing  uneasiness  — 
Grit's  Spectacle  brand  was  very  evidently  de- 
vised to  burn  over  Pecos  Dalhart's  Monkey- 

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wrench,  but  that  was  beside  the  point.  They 
were  there  to  decide  whether  Pecos  Dalhart 
had  stolen  that  particular  spotted  calf,  and  the 
markings  said  that  he  did.  By  that  broad  bar 
which  ran  through  the  pair  of  Spectacles  he 
deprived  Isaac  Crittenden  of  its  ownership, 
and  by  the  Monkey-wrench  burned  below  he 
took  it  for  his  own.  All  right  then, —  they  re- 
tired to  their  seats  and  Angevine  Thorne  took 
the  witness. 

They  faced  each  other  for  a  minute  —  the 
man  who  had  committed  a  crime  and  covered 
it,  and  the  man  who  had  sworn  to  expose  his 
guilt  —  and  began  their  fencing  warily. 

"Mr.  Crittenden,"  purred  Angy,  "you  are 
in  the  cattle  business,  are  you  not?  Yes,  in- 
deed; and  about  how  many  cattle  have  you 
running  on  your  range?" 

"I  don't  know!"  answered  Crittenden 
gruffly. 

"At  the  last  time  you  paid  your  taxes  you 
were  assessed  for  about  ten  thousand,  were  you 
not?  Quite  correct;  I  have  the  statement  of 

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the  assessor  here  to  verify  it.  Now,  Mr.  Crit- 
tenden,  kindly  tell  the  jury  what  per  cent  of 
those  cattle  are  calves?" 

"'I  don't  know,"  replied  Crit. 

"No?"  said  Angy,  with  assumed  surprise. 
"Well  then,  I  hope  the  court  will  excuse  me 
for  presuming  to  tell  a  cowman  about  cows 
but  the  percentage  of  calves  on  an  ordinary 
range  is  between  fifty  and  sixty  per  cent.  So, 
according  to  that  you  have  on  your  range  be- 
tween five  and  six  thousand  calves,  have  you 
not?  Very  good.  And  now,  Mr.  Crittenden, 
speaking  roughly,  about  how  many  of  your  cat- 
tle are  solid  color  ?" 

"I  don't  know!"  scowled  Crit. 

"You  don't  know,"  repeated  Angy  gravely. 
"Very  good.  I  wish  the  court  to  note  that 
Mr.  Crittenden  is  a  very  poor  observer.  Now, 
Mr.  Crittenden,  you  have  stated  that  you  do 
not  know  how  many  cattle  you  have ;  nor  how 
many  of  said  cattle  are  calves;  nor  how 
many  of  said  calves  are  solid  color  or  spotted. 
Will  you  kindly  inform  the  court,  then,  how 

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you  know  that  the  calf  which  has  been  pro- 
duced in  evidence  is  yours?'* 

"Well— "  said  Crittenden,  and  then  he 
stopped.  The  one  thing  which  he  was  afraid 
of  in  this  trial  was  about  to  happen  —  Angy 
was  going  to  corner  him  on  the  maternity  of  the 
calf,  and  that  would  make  him  out  a  cow-thief. 
The  district  attorney  scowled  at  him  to  go 
ahead  and  then,  in  order  to  cover  up  the  fail- 
ure, he  leapt  to  his  feet  and  cried : 

"Your  Honor,  I  object  to  the  line  of  ques- 
tioning on  the  ground  that  it  is  irrelevant,  in- 
competent, and  immaterial!" 

"If  the  court  please,"  spoke  up  Angevine 
Thorne,  "the  witness  has  positively  identified 
the  calf  in  question  as  his  own,  although  it  is  a 
matter  of  record  that  he  possesses  four  or  five 
thousand  calves,  all  of  which  have  been  born 
within  the  past  year  and  over  half  of  which  are 
spotted.  It  is  the  purpose  of  the  defence  to 
prove  that  this  calf  does  not  belong  to  the 
witness;  that  it  was  the  property  of  Pecos 
Dalhart  at  the  time  the  alleged  crime  was 

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committed,  and  that  it  had  been  previously 
stolen  by  Isaac  Crittenden!" 

As  he  shouted  these  words  Angy  pointed  an 
accusing  finger  at  Old  Crit,  who  started  back 
like  a  man  who  had  been  struck,  and  while 
the  clamor  of  deputies  and  bailiffs  filled  the 
court-room  they  stood  there  like  the  figures  in  a 
tableau,  glaring  at  each  other  with  inextin- 
guishable hatred. 

"Order  in  the  court!  Order  in  the  court!" 
cried  the  bailiffs,  beating  back  the  crowd,  and 
when  the  assembly  had  been  quieted  the  judge 
motioned  to  Angy  to  proceed. 

"Objection  is  overruled,"  he  said,  and  bent 
his  dark  brows  upon  Isaac  Crittenden.  "Let 
the  witness  answer  the  question." 

"Well,  the  calf  had  my  brand  on  it,"  re- 
sponded Crittenden  defiantly,  and  then,  egged 
on  by  Angy's  sarcastic  smile,  he  went  a  step 
too  far.  "Yes,  and  I  know  him,  too!"  he 
blurted  out.  "I'd  know  that  calf  among  a 
thousand,  by  them  spots  across  his  face." 

"Oh,  you  would,   would  you?"   spoke  up 

[335] 


THE     TEXICAN 

Angy  quickly.  "You  have  a  distinct  recol- 
lection of  the  animal  on  account  of  its  peculiar 
markings  then;  is  that  right?  Very  good. 
When  did  you  put  your  brand  on  that  calf, 
Mr.  Crittenden?" 

"Last  Spring,"  replied  Crittenden  grudg- 
ingly. 

"You  know  the  law  regarding  the  brand- 
ing of  calves,"  prompted  Angy.  "Was  the 
calf  with  its  mother  at  the  time?" 

"It  was!" 

"And  did  she  bear  the  same  brand  that  you 
burned  upon  her  calf?" 

"She  did!" 

"Any  other  brands?" 

"Nope!" 

"Raised  her  yourself,  did  you?" 

"Yes!"  shouted  Crittenden  angrily. 

"That's  all!"  said  Angy  briefly,  and  Isaac 
Crittenden  sank  back  into  his  chair,  dazed  at 
the  very  unexpectedness  of  his  escape.  It 
was  a  perilous  line  of  questioning  that  his 
former  roustabout  had  taken  up,  leading  close 

[336] 


THE     TEXICAN 

to  the  stealing  of  Upton's  cattle  and  the  seiz- 
ing of  Pecos  Dalhart's  herd,  but  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  might  have  sprung  the  mine 
Angy  had  withheld  his  hand.  The  gaunt 
cowman  tottered  to  his  seat  in  a  smother  of 
perspiration,  and  Shepherd  Kilkenny,  after  a 
moment's  consideration,  decided  to  make  his 
hand  good  by  calling  a  host  of  witnesses. 

They  came  into  court,  one  after  the  other, 
the  hard-faced  gun-men  that  Crittenden  kept 
about  his  place,  and  with  the  unblinking  as- 
surance of  men  who  gamble  even  with  life 
itself  they  swore  to  the  stereotyped  facts,  while 
Angy  said  never  a  word. 

"The  People  rest!"  announced  the  district 
attorney  at  last,  and  lay  back  smiling  in  his 
chair  to  see  what  his  opponent  would  spring. 

"Your  Honor  and  gentlemen  of  the  jury," 
began  Angevine  Thorne,  speaking  with  the 
easy  confidence  of  a  barrister,  "the  prosecution 
has  gone  to  great  lengths  to  prove  that  Pecos 
Dalhart  branded  this  calf.  The  defence 
freely  admits  that  act,  but  denies  all  felonious 

22  [337] 


THE     TEXICAN 

intent.  We  will  show  you,  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  that  at  the  time  he  branded  the  animal 
it  was  by  law  and  right  his  own,  and  that  dur- 
ing his  absence  it  had  been  feloniously  and  un- 
lawfully branded  into  the  Spectacle  brand  by 
the  complaining  witness,  Isaac  Crittenden. 
Mr.  Dalhart,  will  you  please  take  the  stand!" 

Awkward  and  shamefaced  in  the  presence 
of  the  multitude  and  painfully  conscious  of 
his  jail  clothes,  Pecos  mounted  to  the  stand 
and  turned  to  face  his  inquisitor.  They  had 
rehearsed  the  scene  before  —  for  Babe  Thorne 
was  not  altogether  ignorant  of  a  lawyer's  wiles 
—  and  his  examination  went  off  as  smoothly  as 
Kilkenny's  examination  of  Crit,  down  to  the 
point  where  Pecos  was  rudely  pounced  upon 
and  roped  while  he  was  branding  his  spotted 
calf.  Then  it  was  that  Angevine  Thome's 
voice  began  to  ring  like  a  trumpet,  and  as  he 
came  to  the  crucial  question  the  audience  stood 
motionless  to  listen. 

"Now,  Mr.  Dalhart,"  he  clarioned,  "you  say 
that  you  purposely  barred  the  Spectacle  brand 

[338] 


THE     TEXICAN 

upon  this  calf  and  burned  your  own  brand, 
which  was  a  Monkey-wrench,  below  it? 
What  was  your  reason  for  that  act?" 

"My  reason  was  that  the  calf  was  mine!" 
cried  Pecos,  rising  angrily  to  his  feet.  "When 
I  first  come  to  Verde  Crossing  I  bought  an 
old  spotted  cow  and  her  calf  from  Jose  Garcia 
and  branded  them  with  a  Monkey-wrench  on 
the  ribs  —  I  kept  her  around  my  camp  for  a 
milk  cow.  That  first  calf  growed  up  and  she 
was  jest  comin'  in  with  another  one  when  I 
went  to  New  Mexico  last  Fall.  Well,  when  I 
came  back  last  Spring  I  had  n't  got  into  town 
yet  when  I  come  across  my  old  milk  cow  with 
her  ears  all  chopped  up  and  her  brand  burned 
over  and  this  little  calf,  lookin5  jest  like  her, 
with  a  Spectacle  brand  burned  on  his  ribs. 
That  made  me  mad  and  I  was  jest  ventin'  the 
calf  back  to  a  Monkey-wrench  when  Crittenden 
and  his  cowboys  jumped  in  and  roped  me!" 

"You  say  that  you  bought  the  mother  of 
this  calf  from  Jose  Garcia?" 

"Yes,  sir!     I  paid  him  twenty-five  dollars 

[339] 


THE    TEXICAN 

for  the  cow  and  five  dollars  for  the  first 
calf." 

"What  were  the  brand  and  markings  of  this 
cow  at  the  time  you  bought  her?" 

"She  had  a  Mexican  brand,  like  an  Injun 
arrer  struck  by  lightning,  on  her  left  hip,  a 
big  window  or  ventano  in  the  left  ear,  and  a 
slash  and  underbit  in  the  right.  Garcia  vented 
his  brand  on  her  shoulder  and  I  run  a  Monkey- 
wrench  —  that 's  my  regular,  registered  brand 
• —  on  her  ribs,  but  I  never  changed  her  ear 
marks  because  I  kept  her  for  a  milk  cow  any- 
way." 

"Your  Honor,"  interposed  Kilkenny,  rising 
with  a  bored  air  to  his  feet,  "I  object  to  this 
testimony  on  the  ground  that  it  is  irrelevant, 
incompetent,  and  immaterial.  I  fail  to  see  the 
relation  of  this  hypothetical  milk  cow  to  the 
question  before  the  court." 

"The  cow  in  question  was  the  mother  of  the 
calf  which  my  client  is  accused  of  stealing!" 
cried  Angy,  panting  with  excitement  as  he  saw 
the  moment  of  his  triumph  approaching. 

[340] 


THE     TEXICAN 

"She  was  sold  to  the  defendant  and  he  had  a 
legal  right  to  her  offspring.  Can  a  man  steal 
his  own  property,  Your  Honor?  Most  as- 
suredly not!  I  wish  to  produce  that  cow  in 
evidence  and  I  will  bring  competent  witnesses 
to  prove  that  she  belongs  by  rights  to  Pecos 
Dalhart.  Bring  in  the  exhibit,  Mr.  Tod- 
hunter!" 

He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  side  door 
and  as  Kilkenny  saw  the  coup  which  had  been 
sprung  on  him  he  burst  into  a  storm  of  pro- 
test. "I  object,  Your  Honor!"  he  shouted, 
"I  object!" 

"Objection  overruled!"  pronounced  the 
judge.  "Let  the  cow  be  brought  in  as  quickly 
as  possible  and  after  the  examination  of  the 
exhibit  we  will  proceed  at  once  to  the  argu- 
ment." 

He  paused,  and  as  the  crowd  that  blocked 
the  side  door  gave  way  before  the  bailiffs,  Old 
Funny-face  was  dragged  unwillingly  into 
court  and  led  to  the  sand  boat  to  join  her 
calf.  At  the  first  sight  of  her  dun-colored 

[341] 


THE    TEXICAN 

face  and  spotted  neck  every  man  in  the  jury- 
box  looked  at  his  neighbor  knowingly.  They 
were  cowmen,  every  one  of  them  used  to  pick- 
ing out  mothers  by  hair-marks  in  the  corral 
cut,  and  Old  Funny-face  was  a  dead  ringer 
for  her  calf.  Even  to  the  red  blotch  across 
his  dun  face  the  calf  was  the  same,  and  when 
Funny-face  indignantly  repulsed  its  advances 
they  were  not  deceived,  for  a  cow  soon  forgets 
her  offspring,  once  it  is  taken  away.  But 
most  of  all  their  trained  eyes  dwelt  upon 
the  mangled  ears,  the  deep  swallow  fork  in 
the  left  and  the  short  crop  in  the  right,  and  the 
record  of  the  brands  on  her  side.  There  was 
the  broken  arrow,  just  as  Pecos  had  described 
it,  and  the  vent  mark  on  the  shoulder.  It 
would  take  some  pretty  stiff  swearing  to  make 
them  believe  that  that  Spectacle  brand  on  her 
ribs  had  not  been  burnt  over  a  Monkey-wrench. 
It  was  Angy's  inning  now,  and  with  a  flourish 
he  called  Pecos  to  the  stand  and  had  him  iden- 
tify his  cow;  but  when  he  called  Jose  Garcia, 
and  Jose,  gazing  trustfully  into  Angy's  eyes, 

[342] 


THE     TEXICAN 

testified  that  she  was  his  old  milk  cow  and  he 
had,  sin  duda,  sold  her  to  Pecos  Dalhart  for 
twenty-five  dollars,  the  self-composed  Kil- 
kenny began  to  rave  with  questions,  while 
Crittenden  broke  into  a  cold  sweat.  Not  only 
was  the  case  going  against  him,  but  it  threat- 
ened to  leave  him  in  the  toils.  It  was  too  late 
to  stop  Garcia  now  —  he  had  said  his  say  and 
gone  into  a  sullen  silence  —  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  swear,  and  swear  hard.  Kil- 
kenny was  on  his  toes,  swinging  his  clenched 
fist  into  the  hollow  of  his  hand  and  raging  at  the 
witness,  when  Crittenden  suddenly  dragged 
him  down  by  the  coat-tails  and  began  to 
whisper  into  his  ear.  Instantly  the  district 
attorney  was  all  attention;  he  asked  a  question, 
and  then  another;  nodded,  and  addressed  the 
court. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  said,  "I  will  excuse  the 
witness  and  ask  to  call  others  in  rebuttal. 
Will  you  take  the  chair,  Mr.  Crittenden!" 

Old  Crit  advanced  to  the  stand  and  faced 
the  court-room,  a  savage  gleam  in  his  eye. 

[343] 


THE    TEXICAN 

"Do  you  recognize  this  cow,  Mr.  Crit- 
tenden?"  inquired  Kilkenny  mildly. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  know  her  well.  She  's  an  old 
gentle  cow  that 's  been  hangin'  around  my  cor- 
ral for  years.  I  took  her  from  Joe  Garcia, 
last  Spring,  for  some  money  he  was  owin'  me." 

"What?"  yelled  Angy,  springing  up  from 
his  chair,  "do  you  mean  to  say — ' 

"I  object,  Your  Honor!"  clamored  Kil- 
kenny desperately.  "I  object!  The  witness 
is  mine!" 

"The  People's  witness,"  ruled  the  judge; 
"let  the  examination  proceed." 

"Is  this  cow  the  mother  of  the  calf  in  ques- 
tion—  do  you  identify  her  as  the  mother  of 
this  calf?" 

"I  do!"  repeated  Crittenden  solemnly. 
"And  you  can  summon  any  of  my  cowboys  — 
they  '11  swear  to  her." 

"Take  the  witness!"  said  Kilkenny,  leering 
at  Angevine  Thorne,  and  in  spite  of  all  Angy 
could  do  Crit  stuck  to  his  story,  word  for 
word.  One  after  the  other  his  cowboys  took 

[344] 


THE     TEXICAN 

the  chair,  glanced  at  their  boss,  and  identified 
the  cow  and  calf.  Kilkenny  had  won,  and 
before  Babe  Thorne  could  collect  his  wits  he 
plunged  into  his  closing  argument. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  cried,  "the 
people  of  Geronimo  County  are  looking  to  you 
to-day  to  vindicate  justice  in  the  courts.  It  is 
the  shame  of  Geronimo  County  —  spoken 
against  her  by  all  the  world  —  that  not  a  single 
cattle-thief  has  ever  been  convicted  in  her 
courts.  Men  have  been  tried;  their  guilt  has 
been  demonstrated  to  a  moral  certainty;  but 
the  evidence  has  been  insufficient,  and  they  have 
escaped.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  a  year  and 
a  half  ago  the  defendant  in  this  case  came  to 
Geronimo  County  without  a  cent;  he  went  to 
work  for  Mr.  Crittenden,  who  kindly  took  him 
in;  but  within  a  few  months,  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  Pecos  Dalhart  left  the  service  of  his  bene- 
factor and  moved  to  Lost  Dog  Canon.  Six 
months  later,  gentlemen,  when  the  sheriff  at 
the  risk  of  his  life  rode  into  his  guilty  hiding- 
place,  Mr.  Dalhart  had  two  hundred  head  of 

.[345] 


THE     TEXICAN 

cattle  shut  up  in  a  secret  pasture!  Two  — 
hundred  —  head,  gentlemen ;  and  he  defied  the 
sheriff  of  this  county  to  even  collect  the  taxes 
upon  those  cattle!  Gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
I  ask  you,  Where  did  this  man  get  those  two 
hundred  head  of  cattle?  Did  he  bring  them 
with  him?  No,  for  the  evidence  shows  that  he 
rode  in  alone.  Did  he  buy  them?  No,  for  he 
had  no  money.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  that 
man  who  sits  before  you  stole  those  cattle,  and 
he  does  not  dare  to  deny  it!" 

He  paused  and  looked  about  the  court-room, 
and  a  great  hush  came  upon  the  entire 
assembly.  Every  man  in  the  crowded  stand- 
ing room  stood  silent  and  the  surge  of  those 
without  the  doorway  died  down  in  a  tremor  of 
craning  heads.  Kilkenny  had  won  —  but  he 
had  not  finished.  Point  by  point  he  went  over 
the  chain  of  his  evidence,  testing  every  link  to 
prove  that  it  was  true,  and  then  in  a  final  out- 
burst of  frenzy  he  drove  the  last  point  home. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  said,  in  closing, 
"the  defendant  stands  before  you,  convicted 

[346] 


THE    TEXICAN 

by  his  own  words.  He  acknowledges  that  he 
branded  the  calf;  he  acknowledges  that  he  set 
at  defiance  all  law  and  justice  and  robbed  the 
man  who  had  befriended  him  —  and  what  is 
his  defence?  That  Isaac  Crittenden  had 
robbed  him  of  his  cow!  Isaac  Crittenden,  who 
has  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills !  A  man  known, 
and  favorably  known,  in  this  community  for 
twenty  years!  Gentlemen,  I  ask  of  you, 
Whose  word  will  you  take  in  this  matter?  The 
word  of  this  self-confessed  cattle-rustler  and 
his  Mexican  consort  or  the  word  of  Isaac  Crit- 
tenden of  Verde  Crossing?  Gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  it  has  been  the  shame  of  Geronimo 
County  for  many  years  that  this  practice  of 
rustling  cattle  has  never  received  its  fitting  re- 
buke. It  has  been  the  shame  of  Arizona  that 
the  rights  of  the  cattle  men,  the  men  who  dared 
the  Indians  and  braved  the  desert  and  made 
this  country  what  it  is,  have  never  been  pro- 
tected. You  have  seen  what  this  negligence  has 
brought  to  our  near  neighbor,  Tonto  County 
—  a  cattle  war  in  which  over  fifty  men  have 

[347] 


THE    TEXICAN 

given  up  their  lives;  a  beautiful  cattle  coun- 
try, devastated  of  all  its  flocks  and  herds.  It 
has  brought  death,  gentlemen,  and  destruction 
of  property,  and  —  bankruptcy!  Gentlemen, 
I  ask  you  for  a  verdict  of  'Guilty'  I" 

He  sat  down,  and  Angevine  Thorne  rose 
to  his  feet,  bewildered.  The  speech  which  he 
had  prepared  to  save  his  friend  was  forgotten ; 
the  appeals  which  he  could  have  made  were 
dead.  He  gazed  about  the  court  and  read  in 
every  eye  the  word  that  was  still  ringing  in 
his  ears:  "Guilty!"  And  yet  he  knew  that 
Pecos  was  not  guilty.  Cattle  he  had  stolen, 
yes  —  but  not  the  cattle  in  court.  They,  of 
all  the  animals  he  had  owned,  had  been  honestly 
acquired;  but  Old  Crit  had  sworn  him  into 
prison.  It  was  right,  perhaps,  but  it  was  not 
Law  —  and  it  was  the  law  that  held  him.  As 
he  looked  at  the  forbidding  faces  before  him, 
each  one  hard  and  set  by  the  false  words  of 
Crit  and  Shepherd  Kilkenny,  the  monstrous 
injustice  of  the  thing  rushed  over  him  and  he 
opened  his  lips  to  speak.  It  was  a  conspiracy 

[348] 


THE     TEXICAN 

—  a  hellish  combination  of  lawyers  and  the  men 
they  served,  to  beat  the  poor  man  down.     The 
old  rage  for  the  revolution,  the  rage  which  he 
had  put  so  resolutely  from  his  heart,  rushed 
back  and  choked  him ;  he  scowled  at  the  sneer- 
ing district  attorney  and  Old  Crit,  humped 
over  in  his  chair;  and  turned  to  the  glowering 
audience,  searching  with  the  orator's  instinct 
for  a  single  friendly   face.     But  there  was 
none ;    every   man   was    against   him  —  every 
one !     He  raised  his  hand  to  heaven  —  and 
stopped.     There  was  a  struggle  in  the  door- 
way —  a  bailiff,  tall  and  burly,  was  thrusting 
back  a  young  girl  who  struggled  to  get  free 

—  and  then  like  a  flash  of  light  Babe  Thorne 
saw  her  face,  the  wild-eyed,  piteous  face  of 
Marcelina! 

"Here!"  he  commanded,  leaping  upon  a 
chair  and  pointing  with  an  imperious  hand. 
4 'Let  that  girl  in!  Your  Honor,  I  demand 
that  that  girl  be  let  in!  This  trial  is  her  trial, 
Your  Honor  —  she  is  Marcelina  Garcia,  my 
friend's  affianced  bride!"  In  that  single  mo- 

[349] 


THE    TEXICAN 

ment  he  saw  it  —  the  last  desperate  chance  to 
save  his  friend  —  a  sentimental  appeal  to  the 
jury!  How  many  men  have  been  saved  from 
prison  and  gallows  and  the  just  punishment  of 
their  crimes  by  such  a  ruse!  Given  the  aged 
mother,  the  despairing  wife,  the  sweetheart, 
clinging  to  his  hand,  and  all  the  thunderings 
of  Jove  will  fail  of  conviction.  The  law  and 
the  evidence  are  nothing;  Reason  is  dethroned 
and  Justice  tips  her  scales  to  send  the  prisoner 
free.  With  a  surly  frown  the  bailiff  let  go  his 
hold  and  like  a  hunted  creature  that  flees  from 
the  memory  of  her  pursuers  Marcelina  ran 
panting  down  the  aisle  and  threw  herself  at 
the  feet  of  the  just  judge. 

"Oh,  Meester,"  she  cried,  holding  up  her 
hands,  "do  not  send  Paycos  to  preeson!  Look, 
here  are  the  ears  of  Old  Funny-face,  his  cow, 
what  OF  Greet  stole  while  he  was  gone! 
Paycos  did  not  steal  the  cow  —  no,  no!  He 
buy  heem  from  my  papa,  and  this  is  mi  padre's 
mark!"  She  unwound  the  blue  silk  handker- 
chief that  encased  them  and  thrust  into  the 

[350] 


THE    TEXICAN 

hands  of  the  astounded  judge  —  two  ears! 
With  eager  glances  she  held  them  up  —  the 
keys  which  Old  Crit  had  cut  from  Funny- 
face's  ears  on  the  day  that  he  stole  Pecos's 
herd  —  and  thrust  her  brown  finger  through 
the  Mexican  ventano.  Then,  impatient  of  her 
English,  she  snatched  them  back  and,  scamp- 
ering back  to  where  Old  Funny-face  still  stood 
on  the  sand  boat,  she  fitted  the  crop  and  swal- 
low-fork back  into  the  mangled  ears. 

"Look!  Look!"  she  cried,  "these  are  the 
dried-up  ears  what  OF  Greet  cut  from  my 
Paycos's  cow,  that  day  when  he  stole  his  cattle. 
My  leetle  brothers  bring  them  from  the  corral 
to  play  with  and  I  hide  them,  to  show  to  Pay- 
cos.  Meester,  he  is  bad  man,  that  Creet!  He 
-he—" 

She  faltered  and  started  back.  There  be- 
fore her,  humped  over  in  his  chair,  sat  Isaac 
Crittenden,  and  his  one  eye  covered  her  like 
the  evil  glare  of  a  rattlesnake. 

"Santa  Maria!"  she  gasped.  "Madre  de 
Dios!  Creet!"  And  with  a  scared  sob  she 

[351] 


THE    TEXICAN 

turned  and  ran  to  Babe.  It  was  an  affecting 
scene,  but  Babe  did  not  overdo  it. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  said,  speaking  over  her 
bowed  head  with  portentous  calm,  "I  wish  to 
offer  these  two  ears  in  evidence  as  an  exhibit 
in  this  case.  One  of  them,  you  will  notice,  is 
cut  in  a  swallow-fork  and  exhibits,  above,  the 
ventano  which  defendant  testified  belonged  to 
the  mother  of  this  calf;  the  other  is  cropped 
short  and  exhibits  the  slash  and  Mexican  an- 
zuelo;  both  of  them  show  the  peculiar  red  and 
white  spots  which  gave  to  the  cow  in  question 
the  name  of  Funny-face.  After  the  jury  has 
inspected  the  exhibit  I  will  ask  that  Marcelina 
Garcia  be  sworn." 

It  was  not  a  long  speech  and  had  nothing 
of  dramatic  appeal;  and  yet  as  it  came  out, 
this  was  Angevine  Thome's  closing  speech. 
When  he  saw  how  the  pendulum  had  swung 
Shepherd  Kilkenny,  the  fighting  district  at- 
torney, went  into  a  black,  frowning  silence 
and  refused  to  speak  to  Old  Grit;  but  as  the 
judge  began  his  instructions  to  the  jury  he 

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suddenly  roused  up  and  beckoned  to  Boone 
Morgan.  They  whispered  together  while  the 
law  was  being  read  and  then  the  sheriff  went 
over  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  Pecos  Dalhart. 

"Sure!"  nodded  Pecos,  and  at  the  signal 
Shepherd  Kilkenny  rose  quickly  to  his  feet. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  said,  bowing  apologetic- 
ally to  the  judge,  "in  consideration  of  the  evi- 
dence which  has  just  been  introduced  I  wish  to 
withdraw  my  former  request  to  the  jury,  and  I 
now  ask  for  a  verdict  of  'Not  guilty.' '  He 
sat  down,  and  a  hum  went  up  from  the  crowded 
court-room  like  the  zooning  of  swarming  bees. 
There  was  something  coming  —  something 
tremendous  —  that  they  all  knew ;  and  when 
the  verdict  was  given  not  a  man  moved  from 
his  place.  Then  Boone  Morgan  rose  up  from 
beside  the  district  attorney  and  touched  Isaac 
Crittenden  on  the  shoulder.  There  was  noth- 
ing rough  about  it,  and  Crittenden  followed 
without  a  word,  but  the  significance  was  plain. 
The  man  who  had  sworn  others  into  prison  had 
done  as  much  for  himself,  and  it  would  take 

23  [353] 


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a  Philadelphia  lawyer  to  turn  him  loose.  He 
had  sworn  that  the  cow  was  his,  and  the  ear 
keys  showed  that  he  lied.  Swallow-fork  and 
crop,  and  Mexican  marks  above,  and  Old 
Funny-face,  wagging  her  mangled  ears  in 
court!  There  had  never  been  a  cow-thief  con- 
victed in  the  Geronimo  .courts,  and  Old  Crit 
would  spend  every  cent  he  had  to  keep  out 
of  jail,  but  if  Shepherd  Kilkenny  could  not 
get  him  on  evidence  like  that,  then  tyranny  is 
dead  and  the  devil  has  lost  his  claws. 


[354] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

NEVER  AGAIN 

THE  District  Court  of  Geronimo  County  . 
broke  up  like  a  stampede  of  cattle  when 
Ike  Crittenden  was  placed  under  arrest, 
and  in  the  general  scramble  Angevine  Thorne 
was  seized  by  a  band  of  determined  men 
and  rushed  to  the  Big  Adobe  bar.  The 
committee  on  public  entertainment  had  set 
their  hearts  on  a  speech,  and  they  would  not 
be  denied.  Meanwhile  Pecos  Dalhart  was 
borne  off  as  inexorably  in  the  other  direction 
by  Boone  Morgan  and  Shepherd  Kilkenny, 
and  not  until  he  had  sworn  to  the  complaint 
and  testified  against  Old  Crit  before  the  J.  P. 
would  they  let  him  go  his  way.  First  on  the 
programme  which  he  had  mapped  out  for  him- 
self was  a  big  feed  at  Hung  Wo's  restaurant, 
and  Charley  Hung  Wo  was  so  happy  over  his 

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release  that  he  refused  to  accept  a  cent.  That 
was  right  friendly  of  Charley  and  shows  what 
a  good  fellow  a  Chink  can  be  —  give  him  a 
chance.  It  cheered  Pecos  up,  and  after  he 
had  got  a  new  outfit  of  clothes  all  around  and 
scoured  the  jail  smell  out  of  his  skin  he  began 
to  feel  like  a  white  man  again.  The  hot  sun- 
shine felt  good  on  his  cheek,  the  wind  smelled 
sweet,  and  he  liked  the  clump  of  board  side- 
walks beneath  his  feet;  but  at  the  same  time 
he  was  lonely.  Somehow  he  did  not  seem  to 
fit  into  this  great  outer  world  any  more  — 
there  was  no  place  to  go  and  nothing  to  do; 
that  is,  nothing  but  throw  in  with  Babe  Thorne 
and  get  drunk,  and  even  that  had  its  disad- 
vantages. 

Lighting  a  cigar  and  wandering  down  the 
street  Pecos  pondered  upon  the  matter  and 
finally  decided  to  hunt  up  Angy  and  see  if 
anything  could  be  done.  Taking  advantage 
of  the  general  preoccupation  he  managed  to 
fight  his  way  through  the  crowded  portals  of 

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the  Big  Adobe  Saloon  unobserved  and  there, 
surrounded  by  the  heaving  multitude,  he 
stopped  to  listen.  A  committee  of  citizens 
had  just  presented  Colonel  Thorne  with  the 
keys  of  the  town,  appended  to  which  as  a 
further  token  of  regard  was  a  drink  check  on 
the  Big  Adobe  —  good  for  life.  Mr.  Thorne 
had  evidently  taken  a  few  of  the  drinks  already 
and  mellowed  to  the  mood  of  his  admirers ;  for 
when  Pecos  arrived  he  was  midway  in  a  flam- 
boyant speech  of  declination. 

"No,  gentlemen,"  he  was  saying,  "much  as 
I  appreciate  the  honor  conferred  upon  me  by 
your  kind  invitation,  I  can  never  accept  the 
nomination  for  such  an  office.  What,  shall 
men  say  in  times  to  come  that  Angevine 
Thorne,  after  freeing  his  friend  from  the 
clutches  of  the  law,  turned  traitor  to  the  com- 
mon people  and  became  the  district  attorney? 
Never!  Nay,  if  I  were  prosecuting  attorney 
I  would  prosecute  the  judge  and  the  jury,  the 
rich  corporations  and  cattle  kings,  and  all  who 

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make  the  law  a  scourge  for  the  poor  and  lowly. 
Never,  never,  never,  shall  the  word  go 
forth—" 

That  was  enough  for  Pecos  —  he  saw  that 
he  was  not  needed.  True,  he  had  promised 
Angy  a  drunk  from  which  Geronimo  should 
date  time,  but  the  citizens'  committee  had  taken 
all  that  off  his  hands.  Pulling  his  hat  down 
over  his  eyes  he  struggled  out  into  the  de- 
serted street  and  looked  around  like  a  lost 
dog — then  with  a  sigh  he  turned  and  made 
his  way  back  to  the  jail.  It  was  the  only 
home  he  had  now.  On  one  shoulder  he  bore  a 
box  of  apples  —  a  last  gift  for  the  boys  in- 
side —  and  as  he  stepped  in  through  the  slid- 
ing doors  and  saw  them  come  swarming  out 
from  their  cells  to  greet  him  he  regarded  them 
almost  with  affection.  For  six  months  he  had 
been  alcalde  in  that  jail,  laying  down  the  law 
with  fist  and  strap,  and  now  he  must  resign. 
As  his  sheriff  attended  to  the  distribution  of 
the  fruit  Pecos  stepped  into  his  little  cell, 
shoved  the  worn  Bible  into  his  pocket  and  got 

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his  strap;  then,  after  a  hurried  word  with 
Boone  Morgan  through  the  bars,  he  mounted 
on  the  alcalde's  chair  and  addressed  them. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "luck  come  my  way  and 
I  'm  goin'  to  leave  you.  You  '11  have  to  have 
a  new  alcalde  now  and  I  only  ask  one  thing 
before  I  go.  They  're  goin'  to  throw  a  big, 
tall,  hump-backed  dastard  in  here  pretty  soon. 
He  's  only  got  one  eye,  but  he  's  got  lots  of 
money  and  I  want  you  to  kangaroo  him  to 
the  limit,  and  give  him  this  for  contempt  of 
court!"  He  raised  the  broad  strap  in  the  air. 
"Will  you  do  it?"  he  yelled,  and  when  they 
answered  with  a  roar  he  hurled  it  into  their 
midst. 

"All  right  then;  fight  for  it,  you  tarriers!" 
he  shouted,  "and  the  one  that  gits  it  is  alcalde!" 

They  fought,  and  when  it  was  over  Pecos 
Dalhart  stepped  out  of  jail,  a  free  man.  It 
is  a  fine  thing  to  be  free,  but  freedom  carries 
with  it  certain  obligations,  one  of  which  is  to 
keep  out  of  jail.  Pecos  glanced  into  the  jag- 
cell  in  passing  and  decided  not  to  get  drunk, 

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at  any  rate.  Then  he  went  down  to  the  of- 
fice with  Boone  Morgan. 

"Well,  Pecos,"  said  that  genial  official,  shak- 
ing out  a  bunch  of  keys,  "you  might  as  well 
take  your  property  envelope  and  what  money 
you  got  left  —  unless  you  expect  to  be  back 
soon,"  he  hinted.  "By  the  way,  what  you  goin' 
to  do  after  you  sober  up?" 

"Well,  I  dunno,"  said  Pecos,  scratching  his 
head.  "I  could  go  back  up  on  the  Verde,  now 
Old  Crit  's  in  jail,  and  burn  them  Spectacle 
cows  he  stole  off  of  me  back  into  a  Hock-sign 
—  two  bars  and  another  circle  would  make  a 
three-ball  sign,  all  right  —  but  I  've  quit  that 
line  of  business.  Look  at  Crit!" 

"Oh!"  grunted  the  sheriff,  "think  you'll 
quit  rustlin',  eh?  But  say,  how  come  you 
ain't  drunk  already?  I  had  a  little  business  I 
wanted  to  talk  over  with  you,  but  I  thought 
I'd  better  wait  till  you  blew  off." 

"Nope,  no  more  booze  for  me!"  declared 
Pecos  virtuously.  "You  fellers  never  git  me 
in  here  no  more.  You  come  so  dam'  near 

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sendin'  me  to  Yuma  for  somethin'  I  never  done 
that  I  'm  goin'  to  be  mighty  careful  what  I 
'do!"  He  paused  and  gazed  sombrely  out  of 
the  window  and  a  new  courage  —  the  courage 
of  clean  clothes  and  freedom  —  drew  him  on  to 
speak.  "This  is  a  hell  of  a  thing  you  call  the 
law,"  he  observed,  "now  ain't  it?  How  much 
of  a  show  does  a  poor  man  git  in  your  courts 
with  Shepherd  Kilkenny  ravin'  for  his  life? 
I  'm  goin'  to  git  on  a  good  horse  and  ride,  and 
ride,  and  ride,  until  I  git  away  from  that 
dastard;  that 's  what  I  'm  goin'  to  do!" 

The  sheriff  had  laid  out  the  familiar  prop- 
erty envelope  and  was  twirling  the  combina- 
tion of  his  safe,  but  at  this  last  outburst  he 
stopped  short. 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  said 
shortly.  "I  been  tryin'  for  two  years  to  get 
Ike  Crittenden  for  stealing  cows,  and  I  want 
you  to  stay  in  Geronimo  County  until  we  get 
him  cinclied!  Are  you  goin'  to  do  it?" 

For  an  instant  Pecos  met  his  eye  defiantly; 
then  the  memory  of  other  cows  that  he  had 

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stolen  rose  up  in  his  mind  and  he  nodded  his 
head. 

"Sure!"  he  said,  "I  '11  be  your  star  witness." 
"All  right  then,"  grumbled  the  sheriff,  turn- 
ing morosely  away  from  his  safe,  "but  bein' 
as  you  seem  to  be  making  medicine  against  the 
law  again  I  jest  want  to  ask  you  a  few  ques- 
tions. You  say  the  law  is  a  hell  of  a  thing  — 
and  it  is ;  I  admit  it.  And  the  poor  man  don't 
have  no  show  against  it  —  that 's  a  fact,  too. 
But  here  's  what  I  want  to  know  —  what  you 
goin'  to  do  about  it?  How  long  do  you  think 
it  will  take  to  change  the  law  so  a  poor  man 
will  have  an  even  break  with  a  rich  one,  the 
way  things  are  goin'  ?  'Bout  a  thousand  years, 
hey?  Well,  I  call  that  conservative.  But 
say,  do  you  expect  to  live  that  long?  No? 
Think  you  can  hurry  it  up  any  by  buckin' 
against  the  law?  Well,  what  you  goin'  to  do 
about  it  —  spend  your  time  in  jail?" 

"Well,    it    ain't    right,"    muttered    Pecos, 
"that 's  all  I  got  to  say.     Jest  look  at  your 

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dam'  law!"  he  cried,  the  memory  of  his  wrongs 
getting  the  better  of  him;  "look  at  me!  Kep' 
six  months  in  jail  before  I  could  git  a  trial  — 
d' you  call  that  right?" 

"Nope,"  said  Boone  Morgan  calmly,  "but 
what  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?  I  mean  you, 
now !  D'  you  think  you  can  mend  matters  any 
by  gettin'  thrown  into  jail?  I  got  my  eye  on 
you,  and  that 's  just  where  you  '11  land.  Sure, 
the  law  is  rotten,  but  what  you  goin'  to  do 
about  it?" 

The  coldblooded  insistence  of  the  man 
jangled  on  Pecos's  nerves  and  made  him  pass 
it  back. 

"Well,  what  can  a  feller  do?"  he  demanded 
savagely. 

"Keep  out  of  trouble  —  don't  break  the  law 
—  that 's  all !"  rumbled  the  sheriff,  fixing  him 
with  his  masterful  eyes.  He  turned  slowly 
back  to  the  combination  of  his  safe,  twirling 
the  tumblers  while  the  wisdom  of  his  words 
went  home ;  then  he  threw  open  the  door,  drew 

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out  a  large  official  envelope,  and  balanced  it  in 
his  hand.  "Well,"  he  challenged,  looking 
Pecos  in  the  eye,  "ain't  that  right?" 

Pecos  pondered  upon  it  a  minute  longer, 
much  as  he  had  studied  on  Grit's  proposition 
that  it  is  no  crime  to  rob  a  thief,  and  right 
there  the  cause  of  the  revolution  lost  another 
fervent  disciple. 

"By  God,  Boone,"  he  said,  "I  believe  you  're 
right!" 

"Wy,  of  course  I  'm  right!"  cried  Morgan, 
slapping  him  jovially  on  the  back;  "and  there  's 
a  thousand  dollars  to  prove  it!" 

He  tore  open  the  official  envelope  and  thrust 
a  sheaf  of  bills  into  the  astonished  cowboy's 
hands. 

"Money  talks,"  he  observed  sententiously, 
"only  there  're  some  people  have  such  a  roarin' 
in  the  ears  they  can't  hear  it.  This  roll  of 
velvet  is  what 's  left  from  the  tax  sale  of  those 
Monkey-wrench  cows  I  seized,  and  it  says  that 
you  are  a  capitalist,  with  all  the  errors  and 
prejudices  of  your  class.  Just  put  that  into 

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cows  now,  and  look  after  'em,  and  you  '11  for- 
get all  about  the  revolution." 

"Hell's  fire!"  ejaculated  Pecos,  shutting 
down  on  the  money.  "You  don't  mean  to  say 
this  is  all  mine?" 

"That 's  right.  I  tried  to  give  it  to  you 
last  Fall,  up  there  at  Verde  Crossing,  but  you 
heard  the  wind  in  your  ears,  clean  to  New 
Mexico.  Guess  your  conscience  was  kind  of 
troublin'  you,  hey?" 

"U-mm,"  answered  Pecos  absently.  He 
was  studying  on  how  to  spend  his  money. 
For  several  minutes  he  sat  thumbing  over  the 
new  bills  and  gazing  out  into  the  twilight; 
then  he  jammed  them  deep  into  his  pocket  and 
started  for  the  door. 

"Hey!  Where  you  goin'?"  shouted  Boone 
Morgan,  as  he  clattered  down  the  steps. 
"Come  back  here  and  get  this  property  en- 
velope! You  must  Ve  had  an  idee,"  he  ven- 
tured, as  Pecos  reappeared. 

"Yep,"  said  Pecos,  "an'  a  good  one."  He 
dumped  the  contents  of  his  envelope  on  top  of 

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the  desk  and  regarded  the  articles  fixedly. 
There,  sparkling  brightly  as  when  he  first 
bought  it,  was  the  eighteen-carat,  solitaire-dia- 
mond engagement-ring. 

"That  ought  to  come  in  pretty  handy  now," 
suggested  the  sheriff,  pointing  to  it  with  the 
butt  of  his  cigar. 

"Nope,"  replied  Pecos  noncommittally, 
"too  late  now." 

"That 's  bad,"  commented  Boone  Morgan 
sociably.  "Mighty  pretty  girl,  too.  All  off, 
hey?" 

Pecos  looked  him  over  carefully,  grunted, 
and  started  for  the  door. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  just  how  it  hap- 
pened so,  but  as  Pecos  Dalhart,  with  a  firm 
resolve  in  his  heart,  dashed  down  the  steps  once 
more,  his  eye  caught  a  darker  shadow  in  the 
dusky  corner  of  the  jail  and  he  stopped  dead 
in  his  tracks.  Then  as  his  vision  became  ad- 
justed to  the  twilight  he  walked  slowly  over 
toward  the  corner,  where  a  woman's  figure 

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was  crouched  against  the  wall.  It  was  Mar- 
celina,  worn,  draggled,  and  tear-stained,  and  as 
she  gazed  up  at  him  from  beneath  her  tangled 
hair  his  heart  stopped  in  its  beat. 

"Ah,  Paycos,"  she  murmured  brokenly, 
"where  can  I  go?  The  seesters  lock  me  up 
in  hi-igh  room,  for  run  away  to  see  you.  Two 
day  I  cry  todo-tiempo  because  you  no  have 
ears  —  then  I  jump  out  of  window  to  breeng 
them.  Now  I  can  not  go  home.  An',  Pay- 
cos,"  she  rose  up  suddenly  and  moved  toward 
him,  "I  am  'fraid!  I  am  'fraid  OF  Greet  will 
catch  me!" 

"Crit  nothin'!"  said  Pecos  scornfully. 
"Come  on  over  here  —  what 's  the  matter  with 
you?"  He  gathered  her  into  his  arms  and 
held  her  close  a  minute. 

"You  ain't  scairt  now,  are  you?"  he  inquired 
tenderly. 

"A-ah,  no!"  sighed  Marcelina,  nestling 
against  his  breast. 

"Well,  gimme  that  kiss,  then,"  said  Pecos. 
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There  were  no  wedding  bells  at  Pecos  Dai- 
hart's  marriage  —  that  takes  too  much  time  — 
but  the  county  clerk  gave  him  a  license  right 
away,  Boone  Morgan  went  along  for  a  witness, 
and  the  J.  P.  did  the  rest.  It  was  the  same 
J.  P.  who  had  held  Pecos  for  cattle-rustling, 
but  what  of  that?  Upon  such  an  occasion  the 
past  is  forgotten  and  we  care  little  what  hand  it 
is  that  confers  our  greatest  happiness.  Pecos 
pressed  a  ten-dollar  bill  into  the  guilt-stained 
palm  of  the  magistrate  and  then,  while  his 
roll  was  out,  he  peeled  off  another  bill  and 
handed  it  to  Boone  Morgan. 

"Give  that  to  Angy  when  he  comes  to,"  he 
said,  "and  tell  'im  to  hunt  me  up.  Don't 
know  where  we  '11  live  yet,  but  it  would  n't  be 
like  home  without  old  Babe  —  would  it,  Mar- 
celina?" 

"Ah,  Paycos,"  breathed  Marcelina,  gazing 
up  at  him  with  adoring  eyes,  "you  are  such  a 
goo-ood  man!" 

The   rustler   glanced    doubtfully   over   his 
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shoulder    at    Boone    Morgan,    grinned,    and 
passed  out  into  the  starlit  night. 

"All  right,  Chiquita,"  he  said.  "You  got  a 
monopoly  on  that  idee  —  but  whatever  you 
say,  goes!" 


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